


Lithium

by grayclouds



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence, Character Study, Homophobia, Identity Issues, Implied Soulmate-Bond, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Muggle Appreciation, Multiple Pairings, No Character-Bashing, Slow Burn, Social & Political Activism, The Golden Trio
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:24:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 225,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2296544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayclouds/pseuds/grayclouds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The smallest change in details can lead to vastly different outcomes. When Harry finds Tom Riddle's diary in his second year, he befriends the entity that resides within. This simple act results in a ripple effect that tears the story as we know it apart, causing a descent into the madness that is the human psyche.</p><p>
  <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/11855736/chapters/26767278">Polish translation</a>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Lit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11855736) by [KociKich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KociKich/pseuds/KociKich)



> So, the first 7 or so chapters are going to have parts of canon retelling scattered about with slight deviations as far as the actual happenings within the story go. After chapter 8 is where it begins to break apart from canon, and by chapter 25 you'll find it is going into a completely different direction!
> 
> Also important to note, if you're one of those people that hates Dumbledore, Ron and/or Hermione for whatever reason and all you're interested in is seeing Harry go dark and become Tom's plaything, then this is not the story for you.
> 
> But if you are actually interested in canon characterisation and can see nuances within characters, and you prefer healthy relationships, then please, read on! Also, for those of you here mainly for the Harry/Cedric, that ship starts happening around chapter 19. Note that Harry/Cedric is _not_ a side-pairing, it's a **main pairing** together with Tom/Harry!

The diary speaks.

Harry has never seen anything like it, but maybe this is normal for wizards. In between enchanted ceilings, animated chess pieces and a cloak that makes you invisible, a talking diary is probably nothing special.

 _Tom Riddle_ is the entity that resides within it—Harry doesn't know who or what Tom Riddle actually is, but his handwriting is elegant and his choice of words eloquent, and so he evokes curiosity. And while Harry is sure he has never heard the name before, it still seems to mean something to him, almost as though Riddle is a friend he had when he was very small, and had half-forgotten. But this is absurd; he never had friends before Hogwarts, Dudley made sure of that. Yet the feeling of familiarity persists, tugging at something inside of him, like fingertips pulling on strings.

Tom Riddle asks him a very simple question: how did he come by his diary? Harry plans a very simple answer: someone tried to flush it down the toilet. In an alternate universe, this answer would've lead to a chain of events that ensured the destruction of the diary in question, as well as the ghost residing within it. In turn, any chance for redemption would be lost. At the end of their journey, there would only be death.

This time, however, Harry takes a moment longer to consider his reply, and writes down something different when he realises his first answer wouldn't really explain  _how_ he found it.

This seemingly innocent adjustment, resulting from a mere two seconds longer of consideration, twists and bends and breaks fate utterly within the ink of a single sentence, and creates a new reality altogether from the shattered pieces of its original.

_"I found it on the floor in the girl's bathroom."_

With this, destiny becomes hollow, and Harry eagerly awaits Riddle's reply, oblivious to the change he has inspired.

_"That is rather odd. The previous holder must have dropped it."_

_"Previous holder?"_ Harry writes down quickly, almost blotting the page.

_"Yes, this diary was first found by another student, though it's of no importance now. I'm sure they won't miss it if they were careless enough to lose it in a bathroom of all things."_

Harry supposes that is true—the previous holder did try flushing it down the toilet. Maybe they finally figured out the diary had a mind of its own and got scared of it? Maybe there _is_ something wrong with it as Ron implied earlier, but Harry doesn't think so. Aside from the fact that it can talk, it seems pretty harmless.

 _"What are you?"_ he asks in a bit of a messy scrawl, unable to contain his intrigue.

_"A diary, obviously."_

Even in text, Harry recognises the wryness and admits it was rather a silly question on his part. He is a bit disappointed by the answer nonetheless.

_"So you're just magic, and not a person?"_

_"I am part of a person, created by magic."_

This response confuses him a bit, and just as he puts the tip of his quill to inquire further, Riddle follows up with a clarification.

_"More specifically, I am a memory preserved inside this diary."_

That makes more sense, though it still strikes him as an impossible bit of magic.  _"If you are a memory of the actual Tom Riddle, how did the diary end up here?"_ It seems rather strange to him that the original Tom Riddle would lose track of something so important. If Harry created a diary and put part of himself into it, he'd be sure to keep it safe.

There is a slight pause before the black words surface in an answer.

_"That I do not know. This diary was created fifty years ago. I haven't spoken to anyone during that time."_

Harry can't even begin to fathom how terrible that must have been. Even if Riddle is just a memory, to have no one to talk to for all that time sounds dreadful.

_"You must have been really bored."_

When Riddle replies Harry thinks he can sense a slight, amused tone from the pages, even if there is no voice speaking to him.

_"Not at all. I am not an actual person like you, Harry. You could say that I'm immortal, in a sense. Time for me passes by rather quickly. You don't need to pity me."_

_"I'm not pitying you,"_ Harry writes back almost hurried.  _"I'm just trying to understand."_

_"You needn't bother."_

_"I know what it's like to be alone,"_ he continues (insists) stubbornly, ignoring Riddle's response.  _"I was alone until I came to Hogwarts."_

_"Alone in what way?"_

_"My parents both died when I was a baby. I was adopted by my aunt and uncle, and they pretty much treated me like a servant for most of my life. They're both muggles, and they hate magic, so they hate me for being a wizard. I lived in a cupboard under the stairs until I was sent to Hogwarts, and I had no friends and no one to talk to."_ It surprises him that he lets all of it out so easily. He's been bottling it up, in part, so to finally have some sort of vent for the years of abuse he hasn't spoken about to anybody seems only obvious.

Still, there's something about this diary, something so persuasive, eliciting a nostalgic feeling he knows can't be right. There's an almost abnormal pull on him to bare his secrets to this peculiar diary, in spite of his gut-feeling warning him something's not quite right.

_"You lived under the stairs until you were eleven?"_

Harry is a bit embarrassed with himself now for letting everything slip so easily, but he supposes no harm can come of it. It's just a diary after all, isn't it? Wasn't it made for this kind of thing in the first place?

_"Yes, until I got the letter from Hogwarts. It had 'Cupboard under the Stairs' addressed on it, so my uncle panicked and gave me my own room."_

The words that appear come to the surface slower, almost hesitant, or maybe incredulous.

_"The current Headmaster knew you were living under the stairs, yet did nothing about it?"_

Harry pauses, frowning slightly. Well, that is-that is to say-he isn't sure—he never really thought about it, actually.

_"I've already heard your story from the previous holder of this diary; The Boy Who Lived, who defeated the greatest wizard of all time when he was a mere infant. Forgive me, but it seems rather ridiculous that Dumbledore or any other staff in Hogwarts would allow the famed defeater of the Dark Lord to live in such dreadful conditions. I am somewhat surprised."_

As Riddle explains this, he makes perfect sense as far as the realm of cold, hard logic goes, but Harry has a bit of trouble wrapping his mind around it considering his emotional attachment and his admiration towards the Headmaster. The letter  _was_ addressed specifically to the cupboard under the stairs—a fact neither Professor McGonagall nor Professor Dumbledore could've known had they not been keeping track of him in some way. But they must have had their reasons for not interfering. Harry trusts them.

_"It wasn't that bad. I fit inside it for the most part."_

They didn't have bad intentions; what were they supposed to do? Threaten his uncle and aunt into treating him better?

 _'Why not?'_ a small voice in his head coaxes.  _'You saw how terrified they were of Hagrid, who didn't even hurt them. It wouldn't have taken a lot. It would've taken a few minutes at most. So why didn't they?'_ Harry thumbs the tip of his quill with a deep frown, staring down at the pages. He hates to think like this, doesn't want to think like this, but… maybe… had Dumbledore just not… cared enough to do it?

Well, he is  _Dumbledore_ after all. Harry is certain he must have had more important things to do than look after a child who wasn't even his own. He can't blame the Headmaster for it. No matter how badly his insides twist at this knowledge, he can't blame him. It's not as if Harry did anything to deserve Dumbledore's consideration as a kid, right?

Who is he, really? Who is Harry Potter?

Just a boy that got lucky once and didn't die.

What is he actually worth, anyway?

Harry has to conclude he's worth very little. Very little indeed, if no one cared enough to intervene all the times he was pushed around by Dudley, yelled at continuously by his uncle, called the most horrible names and endured all sorts of terrible treatment from his relatives.

 _"Harry, you lived in a_ cupboard _. Even I had my own room in the muggle orphanage. You said they treated you like a servant; this is not only abuse you suffered from those revolting muggles, but pure neglect on everyone else's part, everyone who was aware of this but did nothing to stop it."_

He wants to insist it hadn't been that awful. He lived through it, he was never beaten (not by his aunt and uncle, anyway) and he got two meals a day when he did his chores. At the same time, he realises Riddle is right in some way.

Still, even as he contemplates his own situation, something Riddle says pulls his attention.

_"You grew up in an orphanage?"_

_"Yes, unfortunately. I, much like you, had no friends to speak to, and no relatives that cared for me."_

_"How was it in the orphanage?"_

_"Bad."_ A slight pause.  _"I do not wish to speak of it."_

 _"Sorry."_  Harry has forgotten his initial interest in the book entirely. He first wanted to ask about the Chamber of Secrets, but he was overtaken by curiosity for Riddle instead. He doesn't think about the Chamber until he's been writing to Tom for almost an hour (somewhere along the line,  _Riddle_ changed to  _Tom_ ) and Tom mentions how pleasant it is to have an actual conversational partner and not someone that just pours all their trivial little woes into his pages and gives nothing in return for Tom's comforting words.

Harry doesn't understand why someone  _wouldn't_ want to ask Tom questions, or to get to know him better. The knowledge he possesses about the castle alone is impossibly vast—there's not a hidden passage or secret room Harry has discovered that Tom doesn't already know of, and he adds blithely that Harry hasn't even touched upon  _a third_ of the castle's secrets.

Aside from the fact that Tom is a bottomless well of information, Harry finds he enjoys talking to him. The memory that is him is of a sixteen year old Tom Riddle, who, while very tight-lipped about a lot of personal things like his upbringing, has a good sense of humour and is always polite and ready to answer whatever question Harry has for him.

Their conversation that first night is ended rather suddenly when Ron walks in and Harry—through some weird, inexplicable instinct—closes the diary and shoves it underneath his pillow, sitting up straight.

"What's up?" Ron asks him, looking at him with concern.

Harry shrugs. "Nothing."

He doesn't know why he didn't tell Ron about the diary and what he has discovered. Even when Ron specifically asks if he has anything new on the diary, Harry shakes his head. He'll tell Ron and Hermione eventually—at least that's what he says to himself as Ron moves to his own four-poster. He notes to the other that he's going to sleep and closes the curtain between them after a quick exchange of good night.

Instead of sleeping, however, he pulls the diary back out from under his pillow and opens it again. He managed not to spill his bottle of ink all over his sheets, so that's something.

_"Sorry about that, my friend walked in."_

_"I'm surprised you're keeping me a secret."_

Harry is quite surprised at himself as well, but reasons that it's for the best.

_"If Hermione found out about you, you'd probably end up being confiscated."_

_"That would be unfortunate. Make sure you hide me well, Harry."_

He thinks about a potential hiding spot for a very long time after he tells Tom he's going to sleep and closes the diary, putting it on his nightstand on the pile of books for classes. He decides he definitely wants to keep it, so for now, what better way to keep it safe than to have it on him at all times?

Harry asks Tom the next day if he can't replace the cover of the diary or transfigure it to look like something else, in case Ron or Hermione ever catch a glimpse of it—or worse, Malfoy—but Tom replies that because of his memory residing within it  _is_ essentially magic, the diary is immune to any other form of magic.

In the end he decides to chance it, hiding the diary inside a larger notebook. When he returns to the dorms that Sunday after Quidditch practice he finds his belongings strewn around the room, as if a hurricane went through his trunk and ripped everything apart in some sort of desperate search. Even his cloak is torn.

Harry walks over to the bed, open-mouthed, treading on a few loose pages of Travels with Trolls. As he and Neville pull the blankets back onto his bed, Ron, Dean, and Seamus come in, Dean swearing loudly.

"What happened, Harry?"

"No idea," Harry mutters. Ron examines Harry's robes; all the pockets are hanging out.

"Someone's been looking for something," Ron says. "Is there anything missing?"

Harry starts to pick up all his things and throws them into his trunk. As far as he could see, nothing is gone—it's a good thing he decided to keep the diary on him, instead of leaving it in his dorms.

"No, nothing's missing."

Ron helps him clean up the mess, and Seamus suggests reporting this to Professor McGonagall, and Harry would be crazy not to. It has to be a Gryffindor, after all, though Harry can't figure out why they would mess with his stuff like this. When he explains what has happened later that evening to Tom, he gets a surprising answer in return.

_"It sounds like the previous holder is trying to reclaim my diary."_

Harry figured it had to do with the diary, so Tom only confirms his suspicions.  _"Who was the previous holder?"_

_"Ginny Weasley."_

He can hardly believe it. Ginny, of all people? Of course—the diary  _was_ dropped in the girl's bathroom, but why would Ginny try to flush it down the toilet, then only to rip Harry's things apart instead of just asking him to return it?

Harry mentions all of these thoughts to Tom, who doesn't seem as bemused by the whole situation.

 _"She became frightened of what my diary can do, of what_ I  _can do. She has told me all of her secrets, so perhaps when she found out that the diary was not gone but instead in your possession, she panicked, thinking I might give all of it away, and tried to get it back. I am rather glad she failed."_

_"Should I go talk to her?"_

_"If you think it wise."_

Harry can tell Tom doesn't think it wise.

_"If I promise her you haven't told me anything, maybe she'll stop."_

Tom doesn't reply, so Harry changes the subject to the classes he'll have to pick for his third year. He stalled signing up for any because he wanted to hear Tom's opinion, who had already gone through this whole process.

_"I know I want to take Care of Magical Creatures, but I need to pick a second subject and I don't know which one. Ron is taking Divination as his second one…"_

_"Divination is a waste of time. Reading the lines off someone's palm and staring into a crystal ball for an hour—it's all nonsense. Though I admit dream interpretation can be intriguing, it has more to do with the psyche than it does with the future. The whole subject consists of superstitious drivel."_

_"So which subject should I take then?"_

_"If you are really interested in predicting the future, arithmancy is a much more trustworthy method as it relies on a mathematical approach instead of blatant guesswork. Otherwise, I would pick Ancient Runes. Translating scripts of old magic can teach you a lot of interesting spells, or aid you in creating them."_

Creating spells, even? While Harry was initially put off by the name of the subject alone, the way Tom explains it makes it sound a lot more useful than it was depicted as.

_"A lot of studies on the spells we use today are written in old runic texts. Reading them can bring you a new understanding of how magic works far better than any copy of Waffling's Magical Theory ever could. With new understanding comes new possibilities."_

And so, to Ron's shock and Hermione's delight and Tom's approval, Harry picks Ancient Runes as his second elective next to Care of Magical Creatures.

When a week has passed and he still hasn't told either of them about the diary, he doesn't think he ever will. Tom certainly doesn't want him to. Tom also doesn't want him to talk to Ginny, but he does, or attempts to, but whenever she sees him she pales and instantly makes her escape.

At the same time, Harry finally asks Tom about the Chamber of Secrets while Ginny is avoiding him, when Dumbledore's temporary resignation and Hagrid's arrest causes uproar within the school. He can scarcely believe the Headmaster is actually gone—and Hagrid arrested! For what? What could the giant have possibly done?

His question is answered when Tom actually  _shows_ him; he's sucked into the pages of the diary and ends up in the past, first witnessing a conversation between Tom and Headmaster Dippet. While this takes place Harry pays attention to his friend especially, as it is the first time he sees him, and he finally has a face and a voice to place with the words in the diary.

The real shock comes when he witnesses Hagrid being blamed for the attacks. While it does look like Hagrid had been keeping a dangerous creature hidden in the castle, even when the memory ends and Harry is lying back on his bed, he can hardly believe it. Hagrid can't be the Heir of Slytherin, can he?

Tom admits as much to him. He explains he hadn't been entirely sure at the time either, but driven by desperation at being sent back to the orphanage he so despised, since Hagrid's "pet" was the only dangerous animal in the castle at the time he had concluded the obvious.

There are no further attacks.

The Chamber of Secrets remains closed and undiscovered.

Tom Riddle no longer cares about cleansing the school from mudbloods.

All he cares about now is Harry Potter.

* * *

"So he'll be back next year? Dumbledore as well?"

Hermione smiles brightly and nods. She, Harry and Ron are in their own little compartment in the train that's heading back to King's Cross station, discussing recent news of Hagrid's release after Dumbledore insisted on a fair trial, in which it was of course impossible to prove he was actually behind the opening of the Chamber in the first place. There was no substantive evidence for his involvement both now  _and_ in the case of fifty years ago.

What ultimately matters to the school board and the Wizengamot both is that the attacks should stop. And so they did—for several months until the end of the year. Since none of the attacks have been actually fatal to any students, the Ministry did what the Ministry does best; sweep the whole ordeal under the rug, and pretend like nothing happened.

The train ride itself is far too short. Within hours he has to say goodbye to his friends, and finds himself on the doorstep of Privet Drive, facing a long,  _long_ summer stuck with relatives who loathe him.

Well, if nothing else, at least he has Tom.


	2. Chapter 2

"You can't just—" Harry watches as Uncle Vernon pulls out his cauldron from his trunk and shoves it into the old cupboard, followed by all of his books, tossed carelessly inside. "I need those things!"

The large whale of a man turns to him, lower lip quivering, which would have Harry think he was about to cry were it not for the fact that nothing but rage is reflected in his beady eyes, and the rest of him is shaking as well, the flush of red creeping up his neck to his face. Aunt Petunia is lingering in the doorway between the hall and the living room, watching with pursed lips and narrowed eyes, arms crossed tightly over her skinny frame.

"There's nothing you'll be needing them for," Uncle Vernon snarls at him, holding out his hand expectantly until Harry (filled with reluctance from head to toe) hands over his wand as well, which is thrown into the cupboard as the last item before Uncle Vernon slams the door shut and closes it up tight, using one large, iron lock with a chain to keep it secure, slipping the key into his pocket with an almost mad grin.

"But if I don't do my homework—"

"THERE WILL BE NO ABNORMAL THINGS IN THIS HOUSEHOLD!" his uncle roars, spit flying from his mouth and narrowly missing Harry's shirt, who quickly takes a step back and tries not to let the disgust show on his face. There's no reasoning with his uncle when it comes to magic—if there was an insane serial killer on one end of an alleyway and a friendly wizard on the other, Harry suspects Uncle Vernon wouldn't hesitate to run towards the serial killer for help.

He resists the urge to point out that by locking up his belongings in the cupboard, there are in fact abnormal things in this household which he is keeping here himself, but he knows his uncle's face would then transition from red to purple and Harry would be next to go into the cupboard, so he stays quiet and storms upstairs with what's left in his trunk as well as Hedwig's cage.

Ignoring Dudley who's wandering around in the corridor and smirking as if he's about to make an obnoxious remark, Harry slips into his room and slams the door shut, anger pounding against his skull.

It's the same thing every bloody summer. The one chance he has to forever escape the miserable Dursleys and they attempt to ruin it for him completely. He shudders to think what would've happened to him had he been born a Squib, unable to do magic, to attend Hogwarts, stuck in Little Whinging and with the Dursleys for more than just summer holidays.

Dudley takes that moment to bang against his door with his fist. "What's wrong, Potter? You crying 'cause dad took your magic stick away?"

"Piss off, Dudley!" Harry snaps venomously, banging back against it once and hearing a sudden shriek and something heavy falling on the floor. While he hadn't intended to startle his cousin, he feels more than satisfied at doing it, barely stifling his laughter as he listens to Dudley scrambling back up.

"You can't stay in your room forever!" Dudley shouts at him from the other side before hobbling away, heavy footsteps audible from the thick creaking of the stairs.

Harry is briefly reminded of all the times Dudley would purposely run up and down and jump on top of the steps just to make his cupboard shake in the mornings and at night when going to sleep, back when they were younger. Often Harry was terrified that sooner or later Dudley would fall through the stairs, his large feet crushing Harry's head. He would curl up under his blanket and pray the stairs would hold, covering his head with his arms.

If it hadn't been for magic, Harry might have still been in that cupboard. He hasn't grown much in the past two years; a result of chronic malnutrition, causing him to be shorter and skinnier than his peers. Though he has put on some weight, it is mostly muscle from Quidditch and not very noticeable unless he flexes. He fears he has missed out on his chance on a growth spurt by now, and at this rate he'll be extremely lucky if he even manages to grow an inch at all. 

He starts unpacking his clothes and whatever else is left in his trunk which Uncle Vernon hasn't gotten his chubby hands on, busying himself by putting everything back into place in his room and feeding Hedwig, and he manages to get through the first hour that way. He finds Tom's diary at the bottom, undiscovered and safely hidden away underneath his Invisibility Cloak. It's a huge relief to see it, as for the first time in his life on Privet Drive, Harry has a friend.

Wasting no more time seeing as how he has put all his belongings away, his trunk empty and sitting next to the small closet he stuffed his clothes in earlier, he grabs his quill and a bottle of ink, sitting at his desk and turning to the first page.

_"I'm back at the Dursleys and they took everything, even my wand."_

In the past few months Harry told Tom everything about his life with his muggle relatives. He hasn't even told Ron or Hermione, but with them, he feels as if it would be different. They would overreact, demand he tell a teacher, Ron might even tell him to come live with him and his family instead—Harry can't take it, can't take the thought of being a burden or a bother to anyone, to be the focus of their  _pity_ of all things.

Tom seems to understand it, and instead of smothering Harry with concern for his well-being he merely expresses repugnance towards his mother's side of the family, and offers suggestions on how to get back at them with various hexes and jinxes once he's of age.

 _"You_ are _going to reclaim all of it, aren't you?"_

Harry grins. This is exactly what he needs, not Hermione's,  _"They can't do that, how will you do your homework?!"_  or Ron's,  _"I can't believe they took your wand, the bloody arseholes!"_  but Tom's cool and calculated responses. The two of them know what it's like, to endure the abuse and scorn of muggles.

_"Yeah, I just need to wait for an opportunity."_

_"No, Harry; what you need is a plan,"_  Tom writes back immediately.  _"Why wait? These are your belongings, they stole them from you. Take them back tonight."_

He has a point, but Harry wouldn't know where to start. " _Uncle Vernon keeps the keys to the lock with him, or in his office, probably."_

_"Did you see him put the keys away in his office?"_

_"No, he put them in his pocket."_

_"He may forget them there, so you might have to search the bedroom. Leave a window open downstairs—it doesn't matter which one, as long as it's inconspicuous enough that they won't notice. When they lock your door tonight, wait until you're certain everyone has gone to sleep. Climb out your window and get inside from the one you left open. After that, it should be child's play."_

Harry is utterly stunned at how simple the plan is, and how he hasn't thought of it before. Even if Uncle Vernon locks him up in his bedroom again as he tends to do every night, climbing out his window is incredibly easy—no more than a few meter fall which can hardly break any bones as he'll land in the bushes down below. Climbing back inside should be easy as well, and after that, he can search his uncle's office for the keys or search his bedroom if he has to. He can get all his stuff and carry it up to his own room again.

There  _is_  the issue of his door being left unlocked, however. He asks Tom about it, seeing as how if he leaves his bedroom door unlocked Uncle Vernon will definitely notice, but he can't lock himself out as there's no way for him to climb back inside of his room. It's too high up.

_"You own a broom, do you not?"_

Harry pauses for a second, and suddenly feels very dim-witted.

_"Oh. I hadn't thought of that."_

_"_ 'Oh' _, indeed."_

Now all there's left to do is wait until the evening.

* * *

When Harry comes down the stairs the next morning with a smile on his face, the tiny,  _tiny_  cogs in Dudley's head start turning.

Why is Potter so happy today when just yesterday he was shouting at Dudley to piss off? He doesn't even give his dad the usual cross look when he sees him at the breakfast table, and in fact, doesn't look at his dad at all. He's quiet and keeps to himself, but every so often, Dudley swears he sees his lips curve in a faint smile.

The morning passes with Harry happily eating his breakfast, keeping his mouth shut and pretending he doesn't exist (just as his aunt and uncle prefer it), ultimately only further arousing Dudley's suspicions. He's oblivious to the danger he invites, however, and instead of paying attention to his wary cousin he cleans up the table after breakfast without saying a word to his aunt and immediately heads upstairs right after.

Harry has to be the only teenager in England (well, aside from Hermione) who's dying to do his homework. He owes it all to Tom, really; if it had been left up to Harry he would've been playing the waiting game, possibly to no avail as well.

Harry is by no means stupid, but when it comes to strategy and making plans that don't have anything to do with Quidditch, he tends to overlook things. His skill lies more in quick thinking, making split-second decisions, reacting to direct confrontations. Sitting around and scheming isn't exactly his forte, being a typical Gryffindor and all. He figures Tom would be good at that, as a Slytherin.

Whenever he thinks about it, being such close friends with a Slytherin of all people, he wants to laugh. His idea of Slytherins all this time has been defined by Malfoy and his two goons, and he realises that it has been pretty narrow-minded of him, to not give any others the benefit of the doubt—then again, the entire House is pretty deep in with Voldemort's people. But what about before that? Maybe Slytherin back in the day was an actually respectable House, before Voldemort corrupted it.

When he's upstairs he asks Tom about it, about his Housemates, but gets a disappointing answer in return.

 _"The rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor wasn't started because of Lord Voldemort; the two Houses have been in conflict since the very founding. I'm sure you know of Salazar Slytherin's infamous falling out with Godric Gryffindor?"_  Tom doesn't wait for his answer.  _"Even during my time in Hogwarts there was a tension between the two Houses, though we preferred to ignore each other. I suspect Lord Voldemort has merely caused more polarisation of the differences already present."_

Harry isn't about to make an arse out of himself and ask what 'polarisation' exactly means (he figures what Tom is saying in simple terms is that Voldemort has made things worse, anyway) and so he shifts the subject away somewhat.

_"That makes sense, though it doesn't explain how we ended up as friends."_

There's a certain delay in Tom's reply that Harry isn't certain how to interpret. Tom rarely takes longer than a second to answer or write something, so whenever there's a pause, Harry wonders what Tom is thinking that causes it.

 _"Do you really need an explanation for that?"_  Tom responds eventually.

 _"You're not half that bad, for a Slytherin. I guess that's enough of an explanation, right?"_  Harry jests easily, his memory-friend not missing a beat in return.

_"And you're exactly what I expect from a Gryffindor. It's a small miracle I don't utterly despise your very existence."_

_"I think you and Malfoy might even get along if you did."_

_"Do you think so lowly of me to suppose I'd ever keep such a spoiled brat in my company?"_

Harry smirks at that; back in Hogwarts he told Tom plenty of Malfoy's antics as his friend was interested in what state Slytherin was in nowadays. When he heard the most 'popular' Slytherin is a child that goes around and flaunts his father's wealth and standing around whenever he can, he was "rather displeased".

_"Not even for five minutes?"_

_"Of course he'd have his uses, as heir of the Malfoy fortune and inheritor of his father's connections, but I would never spend time with him for companionship."_

_"So who did you keep for 'companionship', during your time at Hogwarts?"_  Harry inquires, realising he has no idea who Tom called his friends or who he associated with when he was a student. Harry knows he didn't much like Professor Dumbledore, but that is the extent of his knowledge.

_"No one."_

That is not the response he expected.  _"No one? No friends?"_

 _"I had plenty of acquaintances, but no one who could ever understand me, or relate to me."_  Harry knows the feeling he's talking about all too well. He feels bad for him, knowing that he hadn't been able to find the wonderful friends Harry found in Ron and Hermione.  _"Not until now, anyway. Consider yourself my first friend, Harry."_

Harry smiles happily at the statement, feeling rather special for the first time in his life—he is Tom's first friend. Of all the people Tom met before, being as charming and intelligent as he is, he makes  _Harry_ his first friend.

It's quite the unusual bond they have now, as you don't normally befriend a talking diary that hosts a memory-entity from fifty years ago, but he has no reason to question it. Tom has been nothing but kind and helpful to him so far, and they're friends, after all. Friends don't doubt each other.

If only Harry had known at the time that Tom was lying through his teeth.

* * *

When the days pass and Harry's good mood doesn't fade, even with him either holed up in his room or doing chores for his aunt, Dudley decides to take action.

He has to know what it is that makes his cousin this happy, and he has to stop it immediately. What better way to spend his summer than to make Potter absolutely miserable? He's been a burden on their family for thirteen years now, so the least he can do to make up for it is provide Dudley with some entertainment.

The large boy waits until his cousin comes down to pick up his measly plate of food for that evening, and when he's in the kitchen, Dudley quickly races upstairs and barges into Harry's room. Looking around at first glance, all he sees is the stupid owl sitting in a cage near the window and some books spread around the bed, but then he notices a notebook on the desk, next to a quill and a black bottle of what's probably ink.

He approaches it with a large grin, thinking he hit the jackpot and found Harry's diary or something of the sort, greedily picking it up and looking through it. Turning page after page after page, however, he notices it's completely blank.

Face contorting into a disappointed scowl, he's about to drop it back down on the desk again when he notices something inscribed on the green leather cover.

**TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE**

"Put that down!" Harry's angry voice comes from the doorway, and Dudley quickly takes a few steps back, a malicious smirk on his face. His cousin quickly puts his plate and glass on the desk and makes a move to snatch the diary out of Dudley's hands, who raises it away and out of Harry's reach.

"Who's Tom?" he taunts as Harry glares at him, jaw set, reaching out for a second time before Dudley shoves him away. "Is that your boyfriend? You wanna be Mrs. Riddle?"

"Give it back, Dudley!"

"I bet you have his name written all over some pages somewhere in here, don't you, Potter?" Dudley continues to sneer, turning his back to Harry who is having difficulty overcoming his huge physical disadvantage relative to his fat cousin. Dudley flips through the pages again, convinced he has missed something, when another idea occurs to him. "Or is this a present to dear Tommy-boy?"

Harry briefly wonders how Tom would react to being called _'dear Tommy-boy'_ by Dudley, and decides he really has to get that diary back now before—

"I hope he won't be upset if something happens to it," Dudley continues to say and Harry is now panicking as his cousin grabs a handful of pages with a malevolent glinting in his eyes, intending to tear it apart.

"Dudley, STOP!" Harry yells, grabbing at his shirt, pulling and pushing as hard as he can, but realising it is futile. Dudley is going to do inevitable damage to the diary—except he doesn't.

The moment Dudley attempts to tear the pages down, the diary flashes bright red and Dudley is flung across the room like a rag-doll, colliding against the door with a grunt and sinking down on the floor, unmoving.

"WHAT'S ALL THAT NOISE?!" Uncle Vernon howls from downstairs. Harry, who is still flabbergasted at what has just taken place, manages to get out an excuse.

"I-I dropped Hedwig's cage! Sorry, it won't happen again!" he calls back weakly, looking at the diary that has fallen to the floor and carefully picking it up, before looking over to his cousin who looks like he's been knocked out. This is bad. If either his aunt or uncle sees Dudley like this, Harry will be finished.

He puts the diary aside for now and sets out to drag Dudley back to his own room. Heaving the boy up by his sweaty armpits (Harry grimaces) he nearly throws his back out, but he manages to haul him off to his room. Getting him to lie on his bed takes five minutes and it's only due to sheer dumb luck that Aunt Petunia hasn't come upstairs yet to do the laundry.

Harry closes Dudley's bedroom door and quickly retreats to his own, sitting down at his desk and opening the diary.

_"What the bloody hell just happened?"_

_"I defended myself,"_  Tom replies simply, not lessening Harry's confusion.

_"You just knocked Dudley out cold!"_

_"He was attempting to kill me; he's lucky I didn't decide to burn his hands off."_

_"Don't get me wrong, I'm not upset with you or anything, I just had no idea you could do that!"_  It is a reassuring thing to know that the diary has its own defence mechanisms, Harry's respect for Tom growing even further. He's sure it isn't a type of magic just anyone can accomplish, especially not the type that sends a person flying across the room.

 _"I could do much more than that, if I had more magic,"_  Tom remarks, instantly piquing Harry's curiosity.

_"What do you mean?"_

_"I have my own source of magic, though it is small, and I am just a little piece of another person, bound to these pages,"_  he begins to explain, gaining the boy's full attention.  _"I can show you my memories, and I can protect myself, but that is the extent of what I can do as I am now. If I had another source I could tap from, however, I'd be able to do much more. I'd even be able to leave the diary, with enough of it."_

Harry's heart starts beating faster with excitement. For Tom to be able to leave the diary would be nothing short of amazing—he'd actually be able to see him, to talk to him, to laugh with him like he does with all his other friends. It sounds like a fantastic idea, and Harry sees no downsides to it, blinded by his own need for a friend who truly understands his predicament.

 _"So how would we get you another source?"_  he asks quickly, and so eager he is to help that his mind is already racing for possibilities.  _"If it's just more magic that you need, couldn't I just give it to you?"_

There's a slight pause until he sees a response.  _"You would do that?"_

_"Of course! You want to get out of the diary, don't you? What do I have to do?"_

The text that appears next is immediate.  _"To create a more direct connection between the two of us, we'll need a bit of your blood. Nothing sinister, I assure you. All you have to do it make a cut on your palm and press it onto a page. I'll take care of the rest."_

_"That's all?"_

_"Yes."_

Harry is rather surprised at how simple the solution is, and wonders why Tom hasn't asked him to do this before. Maybe he didn't think Harry would care enough to do it, and Harry is glad to prove him wrong. He sneaks to the kitchen to get a knife, his uncle too busy yelling at one of his employees through the phone and his aunt to busy watching TV to notice, and quickly heads upstairs again, wanting to get it over with as fast as possible.

He isn't entirely sure about the cutting part. It's going to hurt, that much is inevitable, but when he thinks about Tom stepping out of the diary, walking around his room, maybe leaning against the desk, maybe petting Hedwig, he thinks it's more than worth it. To have someone like Tom around, who really  _knows_ him and understands him, provides incentive enough. Especially being cooped up for the rest of the summer with the Dursleys, Harry doesn't think it through as much as he should. What reason does he have to distrust Tom, anyway? His mind is made up.

Tom clarifies a few things before he goes through with it, however.

 _"It'll be a gradual process. I don't want to sap all your magic all at once, only as much as you can miss without it affecting your health or your spells, small chunks that you'll easily replenish over time. I don't know how long it will take for me to be able to leave the diary, but it's a start if nothing else."_  Harry sees nothing wrong with any of this, feeling better with Tom's reassurance that he'll be careful with draining Harry's magic.  _"Are you sure you want to do this?"_

 _"Absolutely,"_  Harry writes down the word easily, and then looks at the knife in his hand. He bites his lip, putting the edge against his palm. If he does it quickly and hard enough one go, it won't be that bad; he's had worse injuries, after all. Closing his eyes, he swiftly pulls the blade of the knife over his palm, cutting it open. The sharp pain makes him curse, blood dripping down his hand and landing in drops on a page of the diary that are absorbed immediately as if they were ink.

Taking a deep breath, he puts his hand down flat on that same page. The moment he connects, it almost feels like there's electricity shooting through his arm, locking his muscles up. It doesn't hurt, but the tingling feeling in his fingertips feels odd, similar to what you feel right after a limb has fallen asleep and you try to shake it out.

The strange current pulses through his arm and prods at something inside his chest. Harry is left breathless at the sensations. It's as if there's something inside his veins that hooks into his magic and slowly pulls it into the diary. The feeling slowly fades, and when it's practically unnoticeable, Harry pulls his hand off the page, and notices to his wonder that his cut has healed completely.

When he looks down at the diary he sees two words written in the middle of the page ( _"Thank you,"_ ) and smiles without truly understanding the ominous meaning behind them.

Tom Riddle grows stronger.


	3. Chapter 3

Somehow, things with Dudley work out almost perfectly. Whenever Harry flashes him a glimpse of Tom's diary, the boy turns pale and starts sweating. It's amusing to Harry at first, but when for the next several nights he can hear Dudley screaming in his sleep, sounding as if he's having the most horrible nightmares, he starts feeling a little guilty. He asks Tom if he did anything  _else_ to Dudley aside from knocking him out, and Tom smoothly remarks that you can never know how magic will impact muggles. The boy might just be traumatised by the experience.

Harry reluctantly accepts his explanation, but he doesn't like it. At least his aunt and uncle have no way of blaming this on him as Dudley refuses to speak of what's tormenting him during the evenings, to the point where they actually take him to a doctor to deal with his sleep-deprivation. He's prescribed sleeping pills, and the screaming stops after a week. The next three weeks, Harry spends as much time possible finishing his homework, goes out on walks in the neighbourhood and talks to Tom. It is perhaps the most peaceful summer he's had with the Dursleys ever.

Of course, nothing good can possibly last for Harry Potter.

On one particular morning during breakfast, he overhears Petunia ( _"Why do you call her 'aunt' if she doesn't behave like one?"_ Tom asked him once, prompting Harry to drop all familial terms) speaking to her husband, and mentioning Marge.

'Aunt Marge'. Vernon's sister.

The Dursleys are awful enough on their own. Marge, however? She's a whole different kind of horrid, which is to be expected, considering she comes from  _Vernon's_  side of the family. From whacking his shins with her cane to having one of her bulldogs chase him around, Marge is probably the most despicable person Harry knows.

When Vernon announces she'll be staying over for an entire  _week_  that morning, right after breakfast and after his uncle establishing his back-story for him, Harry goes straight upstairs to his bedroom and pulls out the diary from under his mattress, sitting down at his desk with a quill and a small ink bottle, silently fuming.

_"This has got to be my worst birthday ever."_

It only takes a second for the response of his only friend in this house to show up, the familiar, elegant lines of ink soothing his nerves that are white-hot from anger.

_"I see you are in an excellent mood this morning."_

Harry's handwriting gets a bit messy as he continues on, his agitation making it difficult to keep a steady hand. _"They've been telling people I've been locked up in a 'Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys'. My aunt is coming over and now I have to pretend as if I've been in a loony bin for the criminally insane the past two years!"_

_"I've said this before, Harry, and I'll say it again: why don't you leave?"_

Tom has brought this point up several times. After Harry told him about all the money he inherited from his parents, Tom questioned why he still remained with his muggle relatives if they treat him so horribly. Harry replied with asking where he's supposed to go, and Tom pointed out he could easily stay at an inn and send an owl to the Weasleys, who would no doubt be delighted to have him stay over for the summer.

And if he really doesn't want to trouble them with his presence, he can always ask to stay at Hogwarts like Tom used to _—_ it is unlikely they'd refuse Harry Potter such a small favour.

Harry has contemplated it many times after his friend mentioned it, and he thinks that he might actually have to do it, too. Why does he have to suffer through this every summer when he can just  _leave_?

_"I don't know. I'm thinking about it."_

If it wasn't for the duplication spell Tom taught him, he might have actually been forced to cut a deal with Vernon, to get him to sign the permission slip for Harry to go to Hogsmeade next year. With the amount of paperwork Vernon signs for his job every day it was incredibly easy for Harry to slip into his office and find something in the trash bin with his signature on it—he  _could_ copy it over directly on the permission slip by hand, but Tom suggested waiting until he was at Hogwarts to instead copy it perfectly by magic in one go.

With Tom's new presence into his life, things have certainly been made a lot easier in some ways. Harry is incredibly happy he decided to keep the diary, as Tom's advice has often proved to be invaluable. However, there has been something peculiar going on with the diary, lately. Harry wonders if it's just his imagination, but sometimes, when the rest of the house is quiet and he's talking to Tom, when he really concentrates on the words, he thinks he can almost  _hear_ Tom's voice.

It's evidence that the bond established between the two of them through blood magic has been working, his magic fuelling Tom with new life. At this rate, Tom told him it would only take a few months for him to be able to materialise outside the diary. Harry can't wait for it.

 _"Tell me about this aunt that is visiting,"_ Tom suggests, pulling Harry's attention away from his thoughts and back to his pages. Harry dips the tip of his quill in the ink, but before he can write a single word, more appears on the page.  _"And before I forget—"_ The next three words are not just written; a gust of wind blows through his room and the atmosphere suddenly shifts to something charged with magic, when Harry swears he can hear a whisper as clear as if it were breathed directly into his ear.

" _Happy birthday, Harry."_

* * *

By the end of the day he drags his trunk along on the cold pavement, still furious and somewhat regretting that he didn't turn that revolting woman into a toad or something. Not that he knew how to—that bit of transfiguration was still a bit too advanced for him. And the Ministry would have probably expelled him from Hogwarts immediately.

Either way, he took Tom's advice after hearing Marge badmouth his mother. Harry decided then, listening to the woman compare his mother to a bitch, that he really didn't have to put up with this any longer. He could just grab his stuff and get out if he needed to. He knew how to flag down the Knight Bus, which Tom had told him about, and get to the Leaky Cauldron, so in essence the only thing that prevented him was his own hesitance of going out all by himself, though that feeling was promptly overwhelmed by his fury.

Sure, he probably should not have let his anger control him (which ended up shattering all the windows when he slammed the front door shut behind him on his way out) but he figures it could've been much worse.

He could've ended up blowing his aunt up, for example.

The Knight Bus is quite the experience, but what's even more extraordinary is the fact that The Minister of Magic is waiting for him at the Leaky Cauldron. At first Harry is incredibly confused and somewhat anxious for his presence, thinking he did something horribly wrong, but after a brief elaboration it seems as if the man is simply very concerned about his sudden departure from the Dursleys.

The Minister invites him up to a private room where he expresses his worry of Harry having run away from home so suddenly. Usually Harry would've been patient with this, but after seeing how easy it was to leave the Dursleys and how few consequences were bound to his actions, he's a bit ticked off that he hadn't thought of doing this sooner. He wasted two-and-a-half perfectly good summers locked up in his room or otherwise trying  _not_ to get beat up by Dudley and his idiotic little gang, while he could've just gone and stayed at the Leaky Cauldron and enjoyed the atmosphere of Diagon Alley.

When Fudge states (and Harry pretended very much to care, up until this point, where he  _actually_ starts caring) that his aunt and uncle will allow him to return next summer as long as he stays at Hogwarts during the Christmas and Easter holidays, Harry sees it fit to set him straight immediately, announcing he never wants to go back to Privet Drive.

"Now, now, I'm sure you'll feel differently once you've calmed down," Fudge says in a worried tone. "They are your family, after all, and I'm sure you are fond of each other, er, very deep down."

"I slept in a cupboard under the stairs until I was eleven. If they're fond of me they have a very funny way of showing it," Harry mumbles in response, once again silently thanking Tom for showing him the proverbial light.

"You—in a cupboard? Under the stairs!" The Minister seems utterly flabbergasted, which Harry can't quite understand.

"Well, yes, surely you knew? You've been monitoring me in every other way."

"My dear boy," Fudge says with a deep frown, looking highly disconcerted, "I assure you I had no idea until this very second. Our monitoring only extends to the use of magic—there are laws that protect privacy, you know. If I had any idea of such-such abuse…"

Here, Harry sees an opportunity. A chance to rid himself from the Dursleys once and for all. He tells Fudge everything—being forced to do almost all the chores around the house, all his magical belongings locked away prohibiting him to study for Hogwarts, the lies he's been fed about his parents' death, the verbal abuse he suffers through day in and day out… by the end of it, Fudge looks positively ashen.

 _The Boy Who Lived,_ treated so terribly by muggles under Fudge's administration? If this ever gets out to the press it'll be the worst kind of publicity and the best kind of political ammo for his opponents. Fudge tries to give him a smile that looks shaky at best after a long pause, and promises he will look into this matter and see if he can't arrange him a more  _"healthy"_ environment to spend his summers in, and for the rest of his vacation, he should remain in the Leaky Cauldron. Harry walks away with a huge grin on his face. Tom would be proud.

In his new room, with its comfortable looking bed, cheerfully crackling fireplace and nicely polished oak furniture, he finds Hedwig as well as the rest of his belongings. The friendly innkeeper named Tom, who is  _very_ unlike the other Tom he knows, has brought all of it up for him. It feels almost wrong to have another Tom walking around, even if Harry knows the innkeeper longer from his previous visits to the Leaky Cauldron. Still, he'd much rather have Tom Riddle walking around in his room (Harry imagines he'd be leaning against the elaborately carved mantelpiece, dark eyes staring into the fire) instead of Tom the toothless innkeeper grinning at him sheepishly.

The first thing he does with that train of thought lingering in his mind after the innkeeper has left him is open up his trunk and pull out the diary, as well as get a quill and a bottle of ink. He starts to write.

_"It's been a very weird night, Tom."_

He doesn't have to wait for an answer. While his whole life fluctuates in change, this diary is his only constant, the one anchor he has to keep him grounded.

_"Tell me everything."_

* * *

So, there's an insane mass murderer out there who wants him dead.

Harry would've been more alarmed at the news, but he's convinced there is no conceivable way Sirius Black could get to him in Hogwarts.

The past three weeks were fun, leaving aside from the fact that Voldemort's psychotic follower is after him. He bought everything necessary for his classes, enjoyed his mornings by exploring Diagon Alley and staring longingly at the The Firebolt ( _"You're not going to waste your money on a broomstick_ ,  _are you?"_ Tom criticised him when Harry relayed his wish to buy the thing) until Ron and Hermione found him a day before they were supposed to leave for King's Cross.

That day he also discovered that the escaped convict he'd been hearing so much about is specifically after him, of all people (courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley having no volume control on their conversations.).

 _"Is it so surprising?"_ Tom writes to him on the morning of his leave to Hogwarts, Harry sitting up in his bed at the crack of dawn.  _"The Dark Lord must have more followers who seek vengeance in his stead."_

Harry yawns, rubbing an eye from under his glasses before writing a reply.  _"But he escaped from Azkaban. Apparently that's supposed to be impossible."_

_"An impressive feat; all the more reason for caution."_

_"I think I'll be just fine."_

_"I do hope you're not starting to delude yourself into thinking you defeated Lord Voldemort with any skill of your own? You are quite vulnerable outside of Hogwarts, Harry."_

_"Of course I don't think that,"_ Harry writes back quickly, eyebrows furrowing. Tom almost seems annoyed.  _"Besides, even if Black somehow manages to kill me, it's not like he can bring Voldemort back, right?"_

 _"I wouldn't be so sure of that."_ Harry blinks several times, wondering if he has read that right. Tom continues.  _"The Dark Arts offer many possibilities. From what you've told me, it appears that Lord Voldemort is not yet dead—his soul is still in the realm of the living, surviving by possessing animals or people, merely waiting for an opportunity to present itself. If he wanted to regain his own, independent body, it would only take a simple blood ritual."_

Harry feels a chill go down his spine as he reads all of this, eyes wide. He knows Voldemort isn't dead exactly, but the way Tom explains it—would it be that easy for him to return? Just through a blood ritual? What if he's preparing one right now? As Tom said earlier, he has to have more followers like Black out there. What if Black is helping him in the ritual? What if—

_"Are you afraid?"_

Harry lets out a deep breath, calming himself as he reads Tom's question. He thinks about it for a moment, but decides his answer fairly quickly, on instinct.

_"No."_

_"Why not?"_

_"There's still a wizard out there that's stronger than him. Even if he comes back, Dumbledore will_ — _"_ Harry doesn't even have the chance to finish his sentence when he gets an instant response.

 _"Dumbledore! What inane reasoning!"_ This is the first time Harry has witnessed Tom this aggravated; usually he's entirely friendly and patient, even when pointing out Harry's mistakes.  _"Albus Dumbledore couldn't stop the Dark Lord decades before you came along, what makes you think he could possibly stop him at his return? Dumbledore is nothing more than a relic, already past his prime."_

 _"Voldemort is past his prime too,"_ Harry points out, starting to get frustrated, and anxious. It almost sounds like Tom is defending Voldemort, but he can't possibly be. Who could defend such a wizard that has committed so many terrible crimes? Surely not Tom; Harry knows Tom's intellect far surpasses his own, and someone that brilliant  _couldn't_ in all good conscience support such a vile, wretched person. _"And unlike him Dumbledore doesn't need an army of followers and the Dark Arts to fight."_

 _"You think a man that stands alone could win against a man that inspired an army?"_ The pages of the diary start to flutter a little, like the feathers of a bird that's starting to get agitated. He can almost feel it pulsing through the pages, like a vein about to pop.  _"You look down upon the Dark Arts because you do not understand it. No magic can be inherently evil, only man's intent in using it can make it so. If used for a worthy cause, what is so 'evil' about the Dark Arts?"_

 _"Voldemort's followers are insane murderers and people who are too scared of him to resist."_ Harry grits his teeth as he writes, tempted to slam the book shut at this point.  _"And I suppose my parents were killed for a worthy cause, too?"_

_"That's not what I meant."_

_"Then why the bloody hell are you defending Voldemort?"_

_"I'm not defending him."_

_"It sounds like you are!"_ Harry's handwriting is a mess now, and his fingers are starting to cramp, but he's too worked up to care.  _"It almost sounds like you admire him!"_

_"I am only pointing out to you the errors in your thinking. You should have at least a basic understanding of your enemy before you try to wage war against him, Harry. If he ever returns, his followers will be ready to die for him, kill for him, commit atrocities in his name if he so wished it. Dumbledore has very few, I suspect, who have that level of devotion to him. It is obvious who has the advantage there."_

There is nothing he can say in retort to that, and while he doesn't like the idea at all, Harry knows that no one on Dumbledore's side of the fence is capable of the horrors the Death Eaters have caused in the past. He cannot argue with Tom on this, or on anything, really. He's leaps and bounds ahead of Harry in almost every area imaginable. But that doesn't mean he can't be irritated by it.

Tom continues. _"Moreover, I do not understand your aversion for the Dark Arts. Should the worst case scenario ever take place, why wouldn't you use every bit of magic available to you to defeat Lord Voldemort?"_

 _But it's Dark Magic,_  is what he wants to write down, when he realises that's not really a good enough reason for avoiding it at all, is it? He supposes some curses could be useful, but he can't ever see himself becoming a full-fledged practitioner or the Dark Arts, not with all the gruesome spells and rituals that it contains.  _"It's still called the Dark Arts for a reason. It's the only branch of magic Voldemort uses and look what he turned into."_

 _"Yes, he became the greatest dark wizard known to man, immortalised through his name alone. A fate worse than death, surely."_ Sarcasm. There are times where Tom's sarcasm is amusing, and then there are moments like these where Harry considers just slamming the diary shut and shoving it down to the bottom of his trunk. _  
_

_"Okay, I get it."_ Harry pens the words down reluctantly, and even though it is of great annoyance to him and he has a lot more things to say, he doesn't want to cause a dispute over this.  _"But I'm still not convinced."_

_"I'd be disappointed if a few pretty words were all it took to persuade you, Harry."_

He doesn't reply, letting the conversation fall to a stop, having nothing more to say on the subject. He's still a bit sleepy as it is quite early and he stayed up too late last night, chatting with Tom as well. Talking to him has become so captivating that Harry fears he'll get bored of Ron and Hermione some day.

His mind blanks, as it does when you've just woken up a few minutes ago, and he lets the sleepy haze cloud over his thoughts, a finger tracing the edge of the diary's leather cover, the gesture delicate but absentminded at the same time. He thumbs the upper tip that bends slightly under the pressure, and while he knows he might as well get ready for the journey to Hogwarts, he has at least another hour. He yawns and considers going back to sleep.

_"Are you getting bored?"_

Harry blinks, flustered at the words that appear very suddenly on the top of the left page. He quickly dips the tip of his quill into the ink bottle again to write back.

_"How can you tell?"_

The reply takes about three seconds, which is two seconds longer than usual.  _"I can sense it. I don't think I need to tell you that our connection has been growing stronger, do I?"_ No, he certainly doesn't. _"Have you noticed anything strange happening to you lately, Harry? Like fatigue or sudden headaches, for instance?"_ Tom inquires, and while Harry is confused as to the purpose of the question, he responds anyway.

_"Not really. Why d'you ask?"_

_"No particular reason, I'm just making sure you're doing alright."_

Harry ordinarily would think nothing of it, but after the argument they've just had he's less generous in his trust and ponders on it for a whole minute. As friendly as Tom is, he hardly is the type to ask if someone is "doing alright". Usually he can just  _tell_ , making any inquiries redundant, at least with Harry, but he'd bet Tom could read anyone like an open book. So why the question?

_"Should I be expecting something strange to happen to me?"_

When it takes over three seconds this time for Tom to respond to him, he's convinced there's something going on here that he's not aware of.  _"Don't worry about it, it's not worth your attention."_ Harry frowns deeply, and puts his quill down again to scribble a protest, when Tom adds something.  _"Would you like to see another memory?"_

Harry pauses. As much as he knows this is a blatant tactic of evasion, Tom is willing to show him another piece of his past, which is kind of a big deal considering how private of a person he is otherwise, letting precious little slip about his previous life. If he says no now, Harry fears Tom might never show him again, so for this time he concedes, and he watches the pages flutter, stopping very suddenly somewhere midway the diary,  _January 23rd, 1943_ written at the top.

He is sucked in for the second time and lands in a large, dusty classroom he suspects is somewhere in the dungeons from the lack of windows and the chains hanging from the ceiling, torches lit on the walls. It looks old and unused, probably forgotten for the most part. All the chairs and tables have been pushed to the sides, and a group of several Slytherins (most of them boys) are surrounding two others who stand on opposite ends.

One of them he recognises instantly. The tall boy with dark eyes and neatly parted, wavy jet-black hair is undoubtedly Tom, poised with cool confidence, his gaze pinned down on the other person standing across from him. Harry doesn't recognise him. He has a head full of unruly, shoulder-length brown hair and very light blue eyes, scowling in either displeasure or intense concentration. Maybe both.

"Shall we get this over with, then?" Tom suggests, his tone smooth as silk and bordering on nonchalant. There's a hushed whispering through the small crowd gathered, most of them betting _—_ not on  _who_  will win, but on how long it will take for  _Tom_  to win.

"Wands at the ready," someone standing near the middle says, Harry barely paying attention to them as he moves closer to Tom's side, intensely curious and excited to see him duel. While the brown-haired boy raises his wand in stance, Tom does no such thing, merely watching as if an observer and not an actual participant. His stare is transfixed on his opponent, whose eyes are wide with fear. "Begin!"

 _"Stupefy! Petrificus Totalus! Everte Statum!"_ the other boy exclaims, moving his wand first in three successive motions, almost panicked. Tom wards it off with a casual swishing motion of his own wand, and Harry can see a translucent shield (though it looks more like a wall) forming in front of him, the spells hitting it causing a slight ripple, a crack, and with the third breaking it, but not reaching Tom otherwise, who takes a slow step forward.

_"Immobulus!"_

Tom does not even bother to use his wand for defence here; the spark that shoots out of the brunet's wand is already almost entirely off target, and all Tom has to do to avoid it is step aside. It hits the wall behind him, though nothing happens. Harry recognises it as a freezing charm of some sort, thinks he might have even seen Hermione use it last year. Tom keeps walking, slowly, step by step, radiating danger as if a predator slowly stalking his prey.

" _Vipera Igneus!"_

A large stream of fire shoots from the boy's wand, causing gasps and shrieks from the people in the crowd that are standing too close. It takes the shape of a snake, hissing as it lunges. Tom looks entirely unperturbed, makes a circular motion with his wand, and the room's atmosphere shifts strangely. The air swirls and creates a kind of vortex around the snake, almost as if sucking up the flames, extinguishing them instantly. Harry has been holding his breath the whole time; he can almost  _see_ the aura of power Tom exudes, the air around him warped strangely, crackling with electricity.

" _Expulso!"_

Tom casts his own spell and the two collide in mid-air, creating a burst of green and purple sparks, like fireworks.

" _CRUCIO!"_ the brunet desperately shouts as what seems a last resort, a spell cast from his wand that Tom deflects with his own as if swatting away a fly. The boy's hand that is holding up his wand is shaking.

Tom hasn't used an offensive spell once and hasn't said a single word, either, simply nearing him with slow steps until there's only a small gap between them. It seems he's just been waiting for his opponent to run out of tricks, when he lashes out with his wand as if handling a whip _—_ an invisible one that hits the brunet's hand, dropping his wand instantly and yelping in pain.

Harry wonders only for a second why Tom didn't just use the standard Disarming Charm when he spots the large, red cut on the boy's palm, blood dripping down onto the floor. He looks positively terrified when Tom raises his wand again.

" _Compedio."_

Something black shoots out of his wand _—_ shackles, clasping around the boy's ankles that are then tugged upwards with a gesture of Tom's wand and lift him into the air, the boy's arms flailing helplessly, the Slytherins around him cheering him on. The chains that hang from the ceiling shoot down and wrap around the one that connects his shackles, and he's left hanging there, lightly swinging from side to side, face slowly turning red.

While the rest of the crowd gathered jeers at the defeated boy and looks generally amused at his expense, Tom's expression is grim.

"Any other challengers?" he asks, his voice cutting clear through all the other noise in the room and instantly silencing everyone. He looks around, darkly glinting eyes searching off the crowd. Harry notices most of the other students avoid direct eye-contact, and some become even fidgety. "No one?" Tom feigns disappointment. "Here I thought you'd all be  _dying_ to use the spells I taught you against me _—_ isn't that right, Mulciber?" He turns to the boy hanging from the chains, face the shade of a tomato, expression contorted in pain and fear.

"I _—"_

Tom raises his wand and points at Mulciber with a steely gaze. " _Crucio."_

The memory cuts off before the effects of the spell are displayed to Harry.

He feels a sudden pull and within seconds he lands back onto his bed in his room in the Leaky Cauldron, feeling breathless at what he's just witnessed. Tom deflected and neutralised those spells with such ease he almost looked bored doing it, and all of it non-verbally at that, though he supposes it's only logical as Tom in the memory did say he was the one who taught them to Mulciber and the others in the first place.

Harry suspected Tom had to be a skilled wizard with all his knowledge before, but he expected him to be more like Hermione, keeping most of it with theory. Now he understands that he's been underestimating him this entire time. Harry only recognised a single spell from the entire duel; there's still so much that he has yet to learn.

 _"That was amazing!"_ is the first thing Harry writes when he gathers himself back together.

 _"I take it you are impressed,"_ Tom notes, Harry sensing amusement from him.  _"I could instruct you on how to learn those spells, if you'd like. Especially with Black roaming free and plotting to kill you, it would be a good idea for you to learn how to defend yourself properly."_

 _"Of course, I'd love to learn!"_ Harry replies so hastily the ink almost blurs together.

_"Well, I'm glad I'll have such an eager student."_

For a moment Harry thinks he hears the faint sound of a chuckle, but it's too indistinct for him to be sure, and escapes him again as soon as he catches it, slipping away like smoke. He's forced to write it off to his imagination, but he can't help but think it has something to do with their connection getting stronger, as Tom said earlier. He replays the memory in his head, and realises it seemed a bit more detailed than before. It could be him over-thinking it, but things seemed sharper, more real.

Harry does have a curiosity now he's caught a glimpse of Tom's talent. A wizard who was already that talented at such a young age must have turned into someone truly extraordinary and awe-inspiring in his later years. Yet why has Harry never heard of the name Tom Riddle before? He puts his quill down on the page to ask him about it _—_ could it be that he died at an early age and this diary is a legacy he left of himself? Or did something even worse happen?

There's a knock on his door that interrupts him before he can get a single word down, Ron calling him from the other side. Harry is a bit disappointed he has to cut the conversation short here, but it's for a very good reason.

He's finally leaving for Hogwarts.


	4. Chapter 4

It is during this third year train ride that he discovers true fear.

He's been afraid before, but it is an experience incomparable to past occurrences. The cloaked figure that stands in the doorway of their compartment is the most terrifying thing Harry has ever seen, even more so than Voldemort himself. At least Voldemort could speak, at least he had a plan, at least he had emotions, at least he was a  _person_ —people can be defeated. That was his comfort when he confronted the dark wizard in his first year.

This thing in front of him, that stares at him without eyes, that sucks all the warmth out of his blood by its mere presence, is not a person. It is the personification of a feeling. How do you defeat a feeling?

Harry's mind is overwhelmed as the hooded creature floats nearer to him while he's nailed to the ground. An embodiment of despair and hopelessness, feeding off his soul like a starved leech. Death itself, digging its claws into his throat and cutting off his windpipe. The cry of a woman, distant echoes terrorising his mind as if long forgotten nightmares having come back to haunt him.

He can't breathe. He can't think. He's swallowed up completely.

Everything is dark, and cold. So cold.

When he wakes up, when the warmth comes back to his fingertips and the screams are gone, he discovers the name of his fear.  _Dementor_ —reminds him of the word  _dementia_. Something with going insane, he remembers.

When he realizes after coming to that he is the only one who actually fainted, a thick feeling of embarrassment crawling down his back makes it difficult to face his friends, who are all eyeing him worriedly. Even Ginny, who just last year did her best to avoid him completely, is concerned as she watches him stare at the chocolate bar the new Professor gave to him before leaving to talk to the conductor.

He tries to downplay it, but even he knows this isn't something he'll just be able to get over. Professor Lupin is so kind not to make a huge deal out of it, offering only gentle reassurance and urging him to just eat the chocolate, and Harry almost thinks (naively and against his better judgment) that he  _can_ get over it.

Then the train arrives and outside Malfoy taunts him for the incident, and that's when he knows the whole school must have heard it by now. His heart drops into his stomach.  _Harry Potter fainted_.

His woes aren't lessened when Professor Dumbledore announces during the Start-of-Term Feast that the Dementors will be sticking around—naturally, because of Sirius Black.

The mixed cocktail of shame and ire swirling in his chest makes it difficult for him to be his regular, friendly self. Ron and Hermione notice, but they leave him be. They know him well enough to understand when he needs space.

The very thought of telling Tom that he  _fainted_ because of a Dementor, a thing he bets Tom with all his know-how and talent could easily best, intensifies the humiliation.

That first night he leaves the diary closed, and curls up underneath his blankets, falling fast asleep.

* * *

When Harry, Ron, and Hermione enter the Great Hall for breakfast the next day, the first thing they see is Draco Malfoy, who seems to be entertaining a large group of Slytherins with a very funny story. As they pass, Malfoy does a ridiculous impression of a swooning fit and a roar of laughter follows.

"Ignore him," Hermione says, walking right behind Harry. "Just ignore him, it's not worth it."

Even when they sit down at the Gryffindor table and the Weasley twins attempt to cheer him up, Harry's mood stays downtrodden, staring down at his breakfast plate and trying to block out the noise from the green-and-silver clad table. He barely even looks at the new course schedule he's handed, putting it aside and stuffing a piece of toast in his mouth instead.

Ron and Hermione argue over  _her_ new schedule in the meantime, though she blatantly waves away all Ron's protests and exclamations that following three subjects at the same time (Divination, Arithmancy and Muggle Studies) should be impossible. Even when Ron then takes a look at Harry's schedule, stating instantly how lucky he is with having the first period free, Harry merely shrugs. The only time he actually looks up to pay attention to anything other than the food is when Hagrid walks in.

"All righ'?" he says eagerly, pausing on his way to the staff table. "Yer in my firs' ever lesson! Right after lunch! Bin up since five getting' everthin' ready... hope it's okay... me, a teacher... hones'ly..."

' _At least he's having a good day,'_ Harry thinks with a morose expression painted on his face, poking haplessly at his sausages with his fork.

The Hall is starting to empty as people head off towards their first lesson.

Ron checks his schedule. "We'd better go. Look, Divination's at the top of North Tower. It'll take us ten minutes to get there." He turns to Harry with a slight frown. "Hey, cheer up, mate. At least you've got a free period."

"I wouldn't hang around here if I were you, Harry," Hermione warns him, glancing at the Slytherin table. "I think Malfoy's got a free period too." As evidenced by how most of his friends stand up and leave while he and just a few others stick around.

That means Malfoy has to be taking Ancient Runes as well. Harry's mood plummets further.

His friends are off and after forcing himself to empty his plate, he decides to get up and take a walk—anything to be as far away from Malfoy and his ilk as possible. He can go up to the dorms and talk to Tom, but he knows he'll have to tell him about the Dementor attack and he's not looking forward to admitting something so degrading. Instead he decides exploring Hogwarts again is probably a better idea. He figures he can amuse himself for at least fifteen minutes just by observing the paintings.

Having decided upon what to do with his free period, Harry leaves the Great Hall and sets out to roam the Hogwarts grounds. He doesn't spare much thought about where he's going, though he does his best to avoid other students, which proves impossible. Wherever he turns he finds groups of others wandering, and while he does his best to steer clear of the Slytherins, inevitably he runs into one or two small cliques, mainly other third years, that make snide remarks or imitate the fainting incident.

Now he pays attention, he notices that the only Slytherins that go out of their way to pester him are either his peers or juniors—older students in the House give him a few looks here and there but nothing that he isn't used to from everyone else. It's somewhat of a surprising revelation; now he thinks about it, he can't remember a single occasion where he'd been bullied by older Slytherins. Malfoy's influence must not reach that far, but still far enough to make his day miserable.

He wonders how he overlooked this fact, on one hand realising he's made quite the powerful enemy in Malfoy, and on the other hand feeling a tad bit disappointed in himself; he's been grouping the whole House together to be a bunch of evil, muggle-hating bullies.

Ending up at the moving maze of stairways, Harry looks around at the paintings. The first one that catches his eye is one of a group of men discussing something over what seems to be a corpse on the table. Harry blinks and stares, and while he can't see any blood or guts hanging out, he's fairly positive one of them is sticking something sharp and pointy into the dead man's torso.

Harry goes up a few steps to study the painting more closely, wondering why he's never noticed it before. He supposes the faded colouring, the smaller size and the fact that it's in between a really colourful painting of a beautiful mermaid and a long picture of two knights in an eternal jousting match would make one overlook it.

"And so, if you cut through this part here…" The only man wearing a black hat, who's sticking something metallic in the body, suddenly looks to him. "Another student? Well, you're a bit late for class."

"I don't have any classes right now," Harry corrects him, confused by the painted man's question.

"You're not here for the anatomy lecture?"

He opens and then slowly closes his mouth, befuddled by the odd misunderstanding. "Then that's-I mean, is that a dead body? A real one?" He feels stupid for phrasing it that way as it is a  _painting_ after all, but to the characters inside the painting it is very real.

"Why, of course!" the man with the hat exclaims with a deep frown, almost seeming insulted. "Look here, see for yourself!" He reaches delicately inside the hole on the man's torso and pulls out something pink-looking. "This here is the liver—"

Harry instantly turns away, shielding his eyes as he feels bile rising in the back of his throat. "No, no, thank you, I believe you, please put that back!"

"Some paintings are best left alone," someone behind him notes wryly. Harry turns around and sees the ruffled form of Professor Lupin, who has something quite large floating behind him, covered by a thick, black sheet. "Curiosity in moderation, Harry."

"Hello, Professor," he greets the man with a bit of embarrassment, glancing back to the painting once to see it has gone back to its anatomy lecture with the characters, now ignoring him completely. He turns back to his new Professor, eyeing the large thing floating behind him curiously. "Er, what's in there?"

Professor Lupin glances over his shoulder. Harry picks up on some faint sounds—water splashing, and an almost angry hissing noise. "This here? Would you like to see?" he suggests cheerfully.

"Sure."

"Come along, then. You can help me feed it." At Harry's disturbed look the Professor grins. "Not to worry, we'll only be feeding it fish." He goes up the stairs, passing Harry who steps to the side to let what he suspects is a tank through, following after the new Professor and deciding he already likes him much better than his two previous ones.  _Much_ better. Then again that isn't a difficult standard to surpass, considering one was a talentless narcissist and the other was basically Lord Voldemort.

They end up in classroom 3C, the regular room for Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons which smells oddly salty, and Professor Lupin puts the tank down near the windows near the corner, in direct sunlight, before he pulls the cover of the tank off.

Harry is a bit taken aback at the ugly looking creature that splashes around violently in the water before it starts calming down, allowing him to get a better look at it. It has the lower body of an octopus, its skin a sickly green colour, and it has little horns and long, spindly fingers, its sharp teeth bared and glinting, though it seems oddly placated in the sunlight.

"That is a grindylow," Professor Lupin explains casually, reaching into a bucket that is sitting on his desk and pulling out a raw fish. That explains the smell. "I'll be teaching you about them later this year, but for now all you have to know is that they're carnivores." He tosses the fish into the tank, and Harry watches it instantly get devoured by the grindylow, so fast it barely leaves any blood in the water.

He's hesitant to feed it now, as if fearing it will somehow jump out of its tank and bite his hand off, but when Professor Lupin hands him a fish he's not about to chicken out. He decides to keep a distance and depend on his aim, throwing it into the tank and with an almost morbid fascination watching the grindylow swallow it down within seconds.

"So what's our first lesson going to be about, if it isn't about grindylows?" Harry asks, making conversation as he watches the grindylow now swim about, up and down, clearly unhappy about its limited space in the tank.

"Boggarts," Professor Lupin responds. "It should be an interesting class, though—" He hesitates slightly, "—I don't think you should participate for the first lesson."

"What? Why not?"

"A boggart is a shape-shifting creature that takes on the form of its victim's worst fear. I'll have the class practice a charm on it, but…"

It takes Harry only a second to realize what the Professor was concerned about. "You think it'll turn into Voldemort." When all he receives is silence, he feels he should probably correct him. "It won't. I think… I think it would rather turn into a dementor, actually."

"I see," Lupin says thoughtfully. "Well, well… I'm impressed." He smiles slightly at the look of surprise on Harry's face. "That suggests that what you fear most of all is fear itself. Very wise, Harry."

He doesn't know what to say to this compliment, feeling a bit awkward standing around the tank next to the man, his hands now smelling like raw fish. He hasn't noticed the Professor gazing at him until he turns his head to glance at him.

The man looks almost apologetic at being caught staring. "You look exactly like your father."

Harry is so taken aback by the statement that it takes him a while to process it. "You-you knew my father?"

"Yes, I did," Professor Lupin answers while reaching into the bucket to grab another fish. "He was a great man."

He doesn't know how to reply. It's the first time he's heard someone talk about his father; Professor Lupin remarking right afterwards that he has his mother's eyes. Even after the grindylow has been fed, Harry stays in the classroom, asking the Professor about his parents. What kind of people were they? Were they both in Gryffindor? How were they in school? When did they fall in love, when did they get married, were they happy before their deaths?

Professor Lupin answers most of his questions as extensively as he can, seeming sympathetic to Harry's need to know more. He's a bit evasive about some things, particularly when talking about his father's other friends, and though Harry doesn't understand why and wants to ask about it, he doesn't want to come across as rude.

The discoveries he makes during that free period makes him forget about his fainting from the dementor completely. Apparently his mother was one of the best students in her class, especially talented in Potions and Charms. She was kind, compassionate, helpful towards other students, and  _friends with Snape_. It takes several assurances from Professor Lupin to make Harry believe he's not just messing with him before he believes it. Could Snape have been a pleasant person when he was younger? Or perhaps his mother was just a saint?

His father Professor Lupin describes as being the more mischievous type. He was a troublemaker, but very popular for his talent as a Gryffindor Chaser, and particularly skilled in Transfiguration and various hexes and jinxes. Harry also gets the impression (though Professor Lupin is heavy on using polite euphemisms) that he had somewhat of an inflated ego in his early years. He and Snape did not get along whatsoever as well. Harry supposes that explains the currently bad relationship between him and the Potions Master plenty.

When he failed to have any talent in Potions, unlike his mother, and took such a defensive attitude towards Snape's taunting, he probably just confirmed that he was indeed his father's son and had inherited precious little of his mother's qualities. Which in his mind just proves that Snape is a resentful git, really. When he voices his conclusion to Professor Lupin, he seems a bit sceptical.

"On the contrary, I think you have a lot of your mother's character," he replies, marking down notes in a fifth year textbook. "James was… he had a sensitive ego." The careful phrasing is rather humorous to Harry, though he's also a bit surprised at hearing it. He never would've imagined his father to be overconfident or arrogant. "Lily was always kind, unprejudiced and patient, but strong when she needed to be, particularly with James. He matured a lot in his last few years in Hogwarts, mostly thanks to her."

Unprejudiced and patient? Harry can't say that those two qualities apply entirely to him. He's impulsive at times, prefers actions instead of thinking things through, and with the way he's been biased against the entirety of Slytherin House, prejudice is something he knows fairly well.

"I think you should be getting to your next class now, Harry," Professor Lupin remarks after glancing at the clock hanging on the wall after the last half hour passes.

"Right." Harry still has a hundred more questions to ask, but is already elated by everything he managed to uncover during this one, hour-long conversation. "Thank you, Professor. For, you know, telling me about my parents."

Professor Lupin smiles, though Harry thinks there's something sad about it. "It's only right that you should know about them."

Harry nods, picking up his bag which he left on a table, figuring he should leave now before he's late for class, and being late for McGonagall's first lesson of the year is never a great way to start.

* * *

It amuses him when he's the most cheerful person in Transfiguration and the only one who claps at Professor McGonagall's animagus transformation (which really is quite an incredible thing to witness). Apparently Divination didn't go very well for his fellow Gryffindors, Seamus Finnigan looking so pale Harry almost thinks he might pass out at any minute. Turns out that Seamus' death was predicted by the Divination Professor, which had put the lot of them in a rather gloomy mood.

Professor McGonagall brushes the foretelling off, however, and Harry is very relieved that Tom convinced him to choose Ancient Runes as his elective in his second year.

The class passes rather quickly for Harry, who's actually doing his best now to keep up with what the Professor is teaching them. Transfiguration was his father's best subject, so it's hardly an option for him to perform poorly at it. Lunch passes even faster, and before he knows it, it's time for the next course of the day.

Harry is pleased to get out of the castle after the break. Yesterday's rain has faded from the landscape; the sky is a clear, pale grey, and the grass is springy and damp underfoot as he and his two friends set off for their first ever Care of Magical Creatures class.

Ron and Hermione are talking (arguing) about the legitimacy of Professor Trelawney's (Harry assumes that's the Divination teacher) class. Harry walks beside them in silence as they go down the sloping lawns to Hagrid's hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It is only when he spots three very familiar backs ahead of them that he realises they must be having these lessons with the Slytherins. Malfoy is talking animatedly to Crabbe and Goyle, who are chortling loudly.

Harry wouldn't have paid any attention to them ordinarily, but he remembers his conversation with Professor Lupin. His mother's best friend was a Slytherin—not someone like Tom, but  _Snape_ of all Slytherins at that. Harry understands now that he has been treating the House unfairly, and maybe he can prove Snape wrong and follow his mother's example instead.

He feels like an idiot and is mostly sure this is going to backfire horribly, but in his mother's memory, he's willing to give it a shot. "I'll be right back," he says to his two friends, before running off ahead.

"Harry, where are you going?" Hermione calls after him, sounding a bit alarmed.

"Just stay there!" Harry calls back, not wanting this to go awry right off the bat as he approaches the three Slytherins in front of him. "Hey, Malfoy!"

The blond boy stops and turns around, and Harry sees his hand lingering near the edge of his robes, probably close to his wand. Crabbe and Goyle straighten up, trying to look extra intimidating, not that it has any effect on harry.

"What do you want, Potter?" Malfoy sneers, crossing his arms with a scowl.

"I was just wondering..." He takes a pause when he realises he barely knows what to say or how to convey his thoughts into coherent sentences, so he decides to wing it. "Can we have a truce?"

"A truce?"

He would've snickered at the look of confusion on the arrogant blond's face any other time, but if he does  _that_ there isn't a doubt in his mind Malfoy would attempt to hex him on the spot.

"Yeah, look, I know you don't like me and I don't like you much either, but this whole proactively-hating-each-other thing is getting old real fast." The frown on Malfoy's pointed face deepens and he opens his mouth to cut in, which Harry doesn't let him. "I'm just saying that instead of going out of our way to make each other miserable, we could just, er, try to ignore each other?"

Malfoy narrows his eyes slightly, before a slight smirk quirks his lips. "I suppose you want me to stop making fun of you for fainting like a little girl because of the dementor?"

' _You conceited prig, I should—'_ Harry takes a deep breath.  _'Okay, calm down, don't respond to that. You're the bigger person here, like mum would've wanted you to be.'_

"No, that's-that's fine, whatever, you can keep doing that," he manages to brush it aside, and even if there is a thick undertone of irritation in his voice Malfoy looks surprised (and displeased). "I mean as long as you leave me and my friends alone, it doesn't matter to me."

Malfoy is silent for a while, students passing them while giving curious glances in the meantime. Harry has no idea where Ron and Hermione are but he assumes they are standing around back, waiting for him to finish talking to Malfoy—who responds in a typical Slytherin fashion.

"What's in it for me?"

Harry suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. "Not having  _The Boy Who Lived_ on your list of enemies is a pretty good start."

Malfoy isn't stupid; he knows very well that a truce would have no downsides for the either of them, giving Potter no incentive to lie to him. It's not as if Potter is proposing a friendship here, anyway, and he'd still be able to mock and deride him with his mates. And Potter does have a point; it can't be a bad thing to have such a famous wizard on his list of  _potential_ allies, should he ever be in need of one. He is still a bit suspicious, however.

"What brought this on, Potter?" he demands to know in that bossy tone of a boy who's had everything else handed to him on a silver platter, inducing mild feelings of enmity from Harry who does his best not to show it and remain neutral.

He shrugs in reply. "Like I said, it's getting old."

There's another pause, and finally Malfoy says, "I'll think about it," before leaving with his two bodyguards in tow to join the lesson.

Hagrid's first class goes very smoothly. Harry gets to approach the hippogriff that is introduced to the class as Buckbeak and even gets to ride it. Though the rest of the students are impressed, they are reluctant to go closer to the rest of the flock of hippogriffs present, but ultimately all goes well and no one is injured.

Draco Malfoy is silent during the entire lesson, and for once Harry feels slightly proud of himself.

* * *

" _You're expecting too much of your wand,"_ Tom writes when Harry explains he just can't seem to get the freezing charm to work.  _"The motions and the words mean very little when there is no intent behind it. They are merely methods to get you accustomed to using a certain spell and to ensure you don't confuse it with something else. Your pronunciation and wand movement can be perfect, but if there is no will behind it, you'll accomplish nothing. Focus less on the how, and more on the_ what. _"_

Harry scowls at the fly buzzing around in the dorms. He has hidden Tom's diary into his Charms textbook, pretending to be reading from it and practising by theory instead of being taught by a memory inside blank pages. Ron is sitting on his bed, reading through a history book and writing what seems to be a halfhearted draft for his essay.

"You know you could just ask Hermione to help you," he remarks when Harry looks like he's on the brink of losing his patience. "She knows how to do it."

"No, I can figure this out on my own." Harry aims at the innocent fly, the tip of his wand following it tenaciously.

 _'Focus on the what.'_ What does he want to do? He wants to freeze the fly in mid-air. He wants to immobilise it.  _'Stay still already!'_

The fly nearly zooms into Harry's glasses.

_"Immobulus!"_

The fly explodes.

"Oh, gross!" Ron looks thoroughly disgusted and Harry groans, looking down at the tiny little remains of the poor fly on the floor with a glum look. "A bit too much, yeah?"

"Yeah," Harry mumbles, sinking down onto the edge of his bed and looking at the diary, reading the words that surface with an amused flair to them.

" _I suppose it_ is  _immobilised now, though I doubt that's what you had in mind."_

Immobilised is an understatement; the fly is definitely dead. Harry doesn't write anything back in spite of the thought, however. Tom, who is now strongly connected to his magic, said before that he can sense the kind of spells he uses. It is quite the fortunate development, as this way Harry doesn't have to write back constantly to explain what went wrong or what he did to try to make it work, not to mention that it'll look less odd to whoever is around.

" _Keep your emotions in check. If you cannot perform such a simple freezing spell, how do you expect to learn the Patronus charm?"_ Harry almost winces at that. When he returned to the dorms after classes he'd been unable to delay talking to Tom any longer, and so ended up telling him all about the train attack (as well as how the rest of his day went, though he seemed a bit less interested in that).

It wasn't as embarrassing as Harry anticipated. Tom didn't make any remarks aside from stating the trouble it could pose considering the dementors would be guarding Hogwarts from now on. He was a bit surprised initially though, stating he hadn't expected Harry to have such a heavy reaction, but concluding it to be logical considering his past and reassuring him fainting wasn't all that uncommon for some. It made Harry feel a bit better; less ashamed, in any case.

Tom then proposed teaching him the spell that wards off dementors, but underlined it was a very difficult bit of magic to learn for most, and so they would first work on some of the charms Harry had seen in Tom's memory instead. Those would be very useful in duels and battles, just in case he ever runs into Black or any other of Voldemort's followers, which was a clear priority.

Harry knows he has to get this spell right, but now he's out of test subjects to practice on. Ron closes his history textbook and starts throwing it up into the air, suggesting Harry practice on that instead.

"Try not to hit me, though," he adds a bit nervously. "In case you blow me up."

"Right." Harry follows the book's constant ascent and descent, trying to concentrate on what he wants to happen. Since it isn't making an annoying buzzing-noise and it isn't attempting to stab Harry in the eye, it's easier.  _"Immobulus!"_

A blue spark shoots out of his wand and hits the book, making it freeze at the apex of its jump for a few seconds before it suddenly falls down and hits Ron on the head, who'd been staring up at it in mixed wonder and nervosity.

"Ow."

"Sorry," Harry says sheepishly, though he can't hide his triumphant smile, immediately glancing down at the diary.

" _Good."_ He's happy with Tom's response, until something is added.  _"Now practice it until you think you've mastered it. Only after that will we move on to the Stunning Spell."_

Harry actually gets his quill now, dipping it quickly in Ron's ink bottle to write back. The Stunning Spell doesn't sound bad, but…  _"What about the giant flaming snake? I really think—"_

" _Harry, if you attempt a spell that complex at your current skill level, you're more likely to light your own robes on fire than come anywhere near success."_

Either Tom didn't believe Harry belligerent enough to ignore his advice, or didn't think he'd be foolhardy enough to try—perhaps forgetting for a moment that he was talking to a Gryffindor. As such, Harry frowns and becomes stubborn, thinking it can't be that hard if it's all about your willpower. He raises his wand.  _"Vipera Igneus!"_

His sleeve bursts into flames and he stupidly drops his wand, frantically patting down at it. Ron curses and in his mild panic overdoes his water spell, the spray of liquid far too much and soaking Harry and his textbook entirely. The diary remains perfectly dry. At least the fire is out now.

Harry frowns at Ron.

"Was that really necessary?"

"You lit yourself _on fire_ , mate."

He can't really argue, and instead looks down at the diary, fascinated by how the drops of water falling down from his face and hair are repelled by the pages, as if an invisible glass cover is protecting it.

It's then that he feels a sort of weariness radiating from the diary, and hears a distant sigh originating from the pages.  _"Perhaps you'll think twice the next time you decide to ignore my advice."_ Being too taken in by the sound he just heard, Harry can hardly be sorry for it, but decides to put the diary aside for now and dry himself

* * *

Malfoy has been pleasantly ignoring Harry's existence for the past couple of days, which he can only take as a sign that his proposal for truce was accepted. Ron is of the firm opinion it'll come back to bite him in the arse, but Hermione approves of Harry's initiative wholeheartedly. Tom seems pleased with it as well, noting it was a wise move of him to make, which Harry isn't so sure about, seeing as he only did it to honour his mother's memory and not for any sort of future scheme or whatever it is Tom is thinking about.

Tom, by the way, is a bit irritated with Harry as he sometimes tends to leave the diary behind in his dorms now. Harry isn't entirely happy with having to hide it from his two closest friends, but Tom insisted on keeping him a secret for now, and Harry doesn't want to betray his trust, but if he has to keep him a secret then keeping the diary on him at all times is a bit risky. Tom reasons it'll be fine to just keep it in his bag—as he grows stronger, he can pick up on what's happening in the diary's environment, and at least that way he'll have some entertainment in the lessons Harry is following.

Harry isn't one to deny Tom such requests, so he hides the diary dutifully in an inner pocket of his school bag, not even actually taking it out to write in. At times, he feels odd fluctuations coming from it in waves, like a soft breeze, charged with whatever emotion Tom is feeling at the time. More often than not, he's attentive. A rare few times he's amused (especially so when another potion or charm blows up in Seamus' face), sometimes a bit bored (when the teachers start lecturing things he already knows), and sometimes he's even annoyed (when teachers fail at properly lecturing things he already knows, though then he takes it upon himself to properly educate Harry once the class is over).

Harry likes to spend his time by trying to sense all the things Tom is feeling when he doesn't feel like paying attention to his lessons. He's been told off for it more than once, and is starting to gain the reputation of being unfocused among his professors.

As for Harry's courses in his perspective, they're going alright. Care of Magical Creatures quickly becomes one of the most popular classes of the year, the practical lessons with the hippogriffs becoming a favourite among the students. Potions is still Harry's most detested subject, as it seems that even with him trying harder for it now, Snape just goes to more lengths to make him fail. The Potions Master seems convinced he's doing it for his own ego. At this point Harry is starting to give up on the subject altogether.

Ancient Runes is surprisingly interesting. While Professor Bathsheda Babbling tends to drift away from the actual lessons somewhat and, well, babbles a lot, Harry finds that the translations and meanings behind the runes are a pretty fascinating thing to study, and even when he gets something wrong or doesn't get it at all, Hermione is always glad to help him figure it out. He's especially attentive when Professor Babbling mentions old magic rituals in which the runes are utilised, or links them back to epic stories of great wizards and witches in the past. It's certainly much better than "reading" soggy tea leaves out of a small cup, though he gets tired of translating entire paragraphs sometimes.

Then, of course, there is Defence Against the Dark Arts. The boggart turns out to be a real nasty little thing to deal with. Some of the boggart's forms are equally unpleasant for everyone (such as the giant spider or the large snake) and some are more humorous (Snape-boggart). Seeing his classmates conquer their own fears successfully, he starts feeling better about his turn in the line. If they can do it, why can't he?

When Harry's turn comes to face it after Ron takes care of his huge tarantula, the now-legless spider rolls around slowly before it predictably morphs into a dementor with a  _crack_. That's where the class ends, as Harry is once again overwhelmed by the icy feeling of dread, and so are all of his peers though it is beyond his notice.

_"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"_

_"Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now…."_

He knows those voices. He's certain he does, but the names and the faces escape him like sand slipping through his fingers.

_"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—"_

Even faced with a mere imitation of his actual fear, the counter-spell slips out of his grasp. Those eyeless holes bore through him like a drill through soft soil. There's a screaming, that same screaming again, a woman crying out in utter terror somewhere in the back of his mind.

_"Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy…."_

With a shock of distress he realises who it is that he's hearing. Lily Potter, his mother—begging for Harry's life. His chest constricts, his heart aching with every beat.

But the other voice, the other voice is Voldemort's. It is different from the voice he remembers hearing in his first year; younger, clear, stronger, smooth, it reminds him of—

He falls into black, passes out before he even hits the ground, and there is only that single scream, like a broken record looping over into his head endlessly, relentlessly. Somewhere in his subconscious his world becomes encompassed by the fear, and there is a part of him that thinks he'll never escape it, that he'll be trapped, forever having to listen to his mum's cries.

_"Harry, wake up."_

His chest starts feeling a tad bit lighter, the whisper a warm caress that soothes over the ice in his lungs. The panic slowly starts ebbing away, making it easier to breathe.

_"You're safe,_ _wake up."_

His eyelids slide open and he finds a tall figure leaning over him, familiar in a way. The lines are blurred, but for a moment all he sees are dark eyes, and his fear is gone.

"Tom?" he groans, trying to focus, his head aching slightly. It's oddly dark.

When his sight clears up he's met with the confused and worried expressions of Ron and Hermione. Professor Lupin is looking down at him as well from the peripheries of his vision, eyebrows furrowed in mild concern. He faintly realises the whole class has crowded around him, which is why it seemed so dark.

"Give him some space, everyone," Professor Lupin says calmly, shooing his classmates (except for Ron and Hermione) a distance away.

"Harry," Hermione starts carefully, "who's Tom?"

He blinks a few times, still feeling dazed. He was so sure—was it a hallucination? Nothing more than his own mind playing a trick on him, or perhaps trying to escape the suffocating cold of the dementor-boggart? Harry sits up, and shakes his head, eyes drifting off to his school bag that's sitting on top of his table. His heartbeat gradually slows down into a regular rhythm.

"No one," Harry answers quietly when he's no longer scared of dropping dead from a heart attack, wondering why the light is making such an odd shadow near his bag, as if in the shape of a person. Then he wonders why no one else is seeing it. "He's no one."


	5. Chapter 5

Quidditch is the only thing that can sidetrack Harry from his interactions with Tom. Oliver Wood is in his last year as Gryffindor Captain and is fiercely determined to bring home the Quidditch Cup for his House. With the fresh and stormy start of October, they begin their training sessions, three evenings a week. Not even the rain, wind and mud can tarnish Harry's vision of finally winning that large, silver trophy, though he isn't as crazy about it as his Captain.

Wood's tenacity is mostly inspiring, but also somewhat frightening at times; the pressure on Harry's shoulders increases tremendously, considering that it is the Seeker who often seals the victory for their team. As much as he wants it, the possibility of failure is also very real, and not a pleasant thing to be thinking about when you're lying in your bed at night, trying to catch some sleep.

It certainly doesn't help that Ron and Hermione are too busy arguing over Crookshanks and Scabbers to offer any emotional support. Harry doesn't think Crookshanks is evil necessarily, but the cat does seem to have it out for Scabbers. He probably just  _likes_ chasing rats, or something. Whichever the case, Ron screaming bloody murder and Hermione shrieking injustice every time it happens is starting to get a bit old.

Even with all of this bearing down on him, Quidditch as well as his nightly conversations and practising with Tom offer plenty of enjoyment and comfort. Though, much like Quidditch itself, the private lessons are starting to burden him in some ways.

He wants to do well, and he's a very quick learner, but Tom always has  _something_ to remark, something that can be touched up no matter how hard Harry tries. It is during these lessons that Harry discovers the strain of having a perfectionist with the highest standard as a teacher, even if his methods are patient and helpful as opposed to Snape's vindictive scolding and mockery.

It's not necessarily a bad thing, even if it does add a little extra stress to Harry's daily life. He really wants to impress Tom, or make him proud, but nothing ever seems to be good enough. Tom very rarely gives out any praise, and maybe that's a part of his tactic, because it pushes Harry into trying even harder. Sometimes the results are terrible (see: The Incinerated Sleeve Incident) and sometimes, Harry masters a charm or a curse beautifully.

" _Expulso_!"

The cardboard box filled with discarded crumples of parchment and other such papers explodes and scatters its contents all over the dorm. Seamus curses as a piece of cardboard hits his head, though Ron, Dean and Neville are impressed.

Granted, the crude drawing of Snape's face on the front of the box helped a lot, but Harry still managed to get the spell right on the first try! That's a new personal record.

Glimpsing down at the diary hidden as always within a larger book, to his disappointment he sees no praise.  _"You seem to have an affinity for such offensive curses, more so than the defensive charms."_

"Nice one, Harry! Where d'you learn it?" Ron inquires, delivering the praise he expected from his teacher and briefly distracting him.

"Just a book." Technically he isn't lying.

When he successfully undoes the mess he's made with a nifty clean-up spell learned from his knowledgeable friend, the interest in where he keeps getting these new spells and charms from increases, and he has to lie about something he forgot in the common room to avoid any more attention, taking with him his quill and his ink.

Downstairs, where it is empty aside for a few senior year students sitting at a table, Harry finds a nice spot in an armchair near the window, listening to the pitter-patter of the raindrops against the glass as he sits down. He opens up the large Potions textbook and the hidden diary within it, putting his ink bottle on the windowsill and dipping the tip of his quill into it.

_"You know, if I could at least tell Ron about you—"_

Tom interrupts him curtly.  _"We've already talked about this."_

He sighs and knows it's pointless to try to argue. Lately he's been getting more and more uncomfortable with keeping such a large secret from his two best friends, and all the lying he has to do to Ron especially is starting to make him feel like a fraud. Ron thinks that he's some sort of prodigy duellist at this point, while the truth is that Harry just has an excellent teacher.

Still, no matter what he says, Tom won't budge. He is adamant on keeping his existence private between the two of them, even as he grows stronger every day. The shadow Harry saw during that DADA class on boggarts was Tom, after all. He somehow pulled Harry out of the nightmarish state the dementor-boggart put him in, using his own magic to do away with its effects. A more direct application of the Patronus charm, Tom called it—a technique he improvised on the spot. Harry is convinced he will never be as great a wizard as Tom, but he'll be damned if he doesn't try.

_"I know, but we can't keep it a secret forever."_

_"I'll decide when it's time, which it isn't_ yet.  _Patience, Harry."_ The whispers (although most of the time it sounds more like far-off echoes) have become a regularity now. Harry is used to hearing the faint tones of Tom's voice speaking to him through the pages, though no one else seems to hear it.  _"You have been making good progress with curses, more so than with any other charms."_

It isn't exactly a compliment per se, but Harry is still happy to get it.  _"Yeah, curses are pretty easy."_

_"Would you like to learn a few others? I think it's about time I introduced you to the more powerful side of magic."_

_"Of course, anything you've got!"_

_"Very well. The Reductor curse is similar to the Expulso curse, so perhaps we should continue with that. A variation of the Reductor curse, which is mainly used for objects or obstacles, is the Disintegration curse, which is more often used against other people."_

Disintegration curse? If it is as nasty a curse as it sounds, Harry isn't sure if he wants to learn it. Tom quickly senses his reluctance.

 _"You understand you're only learning these curses to use on your enemies, Voldemort and his followers? They are defences just as much as they are weapons. You need to stop being so squeamish about using them if you wish to survive; in a real duel against the Dark Lord there will be no such thing as mercy or hesitation._ _"_

Harry frowns deeply and sinks back into his armchair, feeling much like a child that has been scolded by his parent. What Tom is saying rings true, but there is no imminent threat of Voldemort, is there? And it's not as if  _he_  is expected to defeat Voldemort personally—there are plenty of other wizards and witches infinitely more skilled than he is that would do much better in battle than Harry. Like some of his teachers at Hogwarts, like professional Aurors, like Dumbledore, like—

" _Tom, how long until you're free of the diary?"_

There's quite a long pause, until Harry notices a dark blur from his peripheral vision and looks up to the armchair opposite to his. There's that shadow again. Tom's shadow. It's colourless, and blurry, but Harry can see the outlines of his frame clear enough. The shadow lingers for a while, leans over and nonchalantly traces a symbol on the fogged up glass. First a triangle, then a circle within it, and finally a line through the middle.

The blur fades and no one else in the common room seems to have noticed. Harry stares at the symbol in wonder, less interested in what it means and more taken by the fact that Tom can do that much already. Thinking it is just some random scribble, he doesn't ask about it.

 _"No longer than a few months at most,"_ Tom says, and Harry feels a portion of stress wash away instantly.

This exciting prospect is not the only good news Harry receives that week, however. The next day, when he, Ron and Hermione return to start on their homework in the common room (Harry still has to start on his Ancient Runes essay,  _The Fifty Different Symbols For Death_ , which is due in two days) they see something very interesting posted on the bulletin board.

It is a notice for the first Hogsmeade weekend at the end of October. Harry has to dig out an old contract of his uncle's and shows off his duplication spell to his friends. Vernon's handwriting is copied perfectly onto the Hogsmeade permission slip, prompting several of his peers to demand he teach them as well, Ron remarking it could be used to copy homework much more easily.

Naturally Hermione does not approve of any of it. "Harry, if Black—"

"Don't even start, Hermione," Ron groans, dropping down onto a chair as Harry rips up the bit of paper he stole from Vernon's trash bin, destroying the evidence of his fraud. "I don't think Black is crazy enough to attack Harry in the middle of Hogsmeade."

"He escaped Azkaban, I'm sure if we're not careful he could easily find an opportunity to strike," Hermione bites back with a deep frown, pressing her lips together tightly.

"Oh come off it, he can't be the only third year left behind when—"

"For Merlin's sake, get your priorities straight, Ronald! Would you rather have him dead or alone and alive?"

"You're exaggerating! Besides, if Harry wants to go, then he can go! What, are you going to keep him prisoner in Hogwarts?"

"I'm sitting right here, you know," Harry finally interrupts the two, a bit annoyed they're debating over him without asking for his own opinion. He's starting to think this is less about him and more about the two of them arguing for the sake of it.

Ron mutters an apology and Hermione looks guilty, pouting slightly. Harry smiles. At least they care, in their own way.

* * *

Regardless of Hermione's concerns, Harry hands in his permission form to Professor McGonagall the next day when she reminds them at the end of her Transfiguration class. He's a bit nervous about it at first, but she merely nods, even if she looks like she wants to strongly advise him against going to Hogsmeade.

The village itself is a delight, so much so that Harry's feet are hurting after that first weekend of running all around the village. Honeydukes has the most delicious sweets Harry has ever tasted, Zonko's Joke Shop is like a festival condensed into one small building, the Three Broomsticks is filled with wizards, witches and even an ogre from all walks of life, the Shrieking Shack is invitingly eerie and the perfect haunted house, and even the post office is its own wonder with its two hundred colour-coded owls.

(He never receives the Marauder's Map from the Weasley twins.)

To top off his spectacular outing to Hogsmeade, when he and his two friends return to Hogwarts they are welcomed by a most delightful Halloween Feast. Harry can't remember a time where he has felt happier; everything that day is absolutely perfect up to the most minute details.

He thinks nothing can go possibly wrong, and then they climb up to Gryffindor Tower.

It only takes a small crowd of students, the portrait of the Fat Lady being found attacked and scandalised, and Percy yelling for the Headmaster to cram the entire student body into the Great Hall as the rest of Hogwarts is searched thoroughly for none other than Sirius Black.

Harry does not know the man personally, and while he knows that he is an enemy, he is seriously starting to grow a personal hatred for the escaped convict that somehow constantly manages to ruin things for him this year.

The Fat Lady is for the moment replaced by Sir Cadogan—who is, by all accounts, a complete lunatic who changes the password at least twice a day and otherwise challenges the students to random duels atop his fat, grey pony.

Sir Cadogan, however, is the least of Harry's worries. He is now being closely watched. Teachers find excuses to walk along corridors with him, and Percy Weasley (acting, Harry suspects, on his mother's orders) is tailing him everywhere like an extremely pompous guard dog. To cap it all, Professor McGonagall summons Harry into her office, with such a sombre expression on her face Harry thinks someone must have died.

"There's no point hiding it from you any longer, Potter," she says in a very serious voice. "I know this will come as a shock to you, but Sirius Black—"

"I know he's after me," Harry says wearily. "I heard Ron's dad telling his mum. Mr. Weasley works for the Ministry of Magic."

Professor McGonagall seems very taken aback. She stares at Harry for a moment or two, then says, "I see! Well, in that case, you'll understand why I don't think it's a good idea for you to be practising Quidditch in the evenings. Out on the field with only your team members, it's very exposed, Potter—"

"We've got our first match on Saturday!" Harry exclaims, outraged. "I've got to train, Professor!"

Professor McGonagall considers him intently. Harry knows she's deeply interested in the Gryffindor team's prospects; it was she, after all, who suggested him as Seeker in the first Place. He waits, holding his breath.

"Hmm..." Professor McGonagall stands up and stares out of the window at the Quidditch field, just visible through the rain. "Well... goodness knows, I'd like to see us win the Cup at last... but all the same, I'd be happier if a teacher were present. I'll ask Madam Hooch to oversee your training sessions."

It is a compromise of sorts, and later that week, Harry finds himself in yet another situation that calls for a compromise—between a long held grudge and the new promise he made to himself to be rid of his prejudice towards Slytherins.

When he goes down for breakfast with Ron and Hermione one morning, Near Headless Nick warns them that Peeves, the local poltergeist, is playing a nasty little prank on anyone that uses the West-wing stairs which is the shortest way to the Great Hall for both the Gryffindors and the Ravenclaws. Apparently he's throwing around Slime Grenades, which are more innocent than they sound as they only cover you with green, red or blue slime. The nasty part of that is that's is irremovable for three days straight.

Most of the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws are thankfully saved because of the warnings from both Nick and portraits nearby, though any other students that need to get to the upper floors using those stairs are in for a mean surprise.

Harry is walking with Hermione towards their Ancient Runes class that is located on the West-wing that afternoon when they remember Peeves is terrorising the stairs that lead up to the fourth floor and decide to use another route.

It is that moment that Draco Malfoy, oblivious of Peeves' antics, decides to round the corner and walk towards the steps. Had he not been alone, Harry might have even let him walk, but he is by himself and looks more vulnerable; Harry takes pity on him.

"Malfoy!" he calls from across the hallway, making the wealthy heir stop in his tracks and slowly look over his shoulder, wary at hearing Harry's voice. "I wouldn't take those stairs."

He doesn't stick around long enough to see if Malfoy takes his advice or not, but when he sees him walking into the classroom a few minutes later looking unharmed, glancing at Harry's table and nodding stiffly in acknowledgement, Harry can only assume he heeded his warning.

* * *

Something very strange happens a day before his match against Slytherin. Professor Lupin is absent, substituted by Professor Snape instead, who is not only the most unwelcome surprise Harry has had in a long time, but also skips ahead all the way to werewolves when they  _should_ be starting with hinkypunks instead.

Harry doesn't think much of it other than that Snape is being a right git as he always is, but when he mentions it to Tom later that evening in passing when he's lying in his bed, he gets an unexpected response.

_"Werewolves? Most intriguing."_

_"What?"_

_"Tell me, Harry, do you know if there's a full moon tonight?"_ Harry is a bit confused, and answers that he doesn't know, but one look out the window tells him that it is indeed a full moon. When he says as much to Tom, he appears a bit amused.  _"I suppose I should have expected nothing less from Dumbledore."_

Before Harry can ask him what in the world he's going on about, Ron walks into the dorm in a rather foul mood because of Snape giving him detention (he defended Hermione when the cruel Potions Master called her "an insufferable know-it-all"). Harry has to put aside the diary for a while to wholeheartedly agree with Ron's anti-Snape tirade. Once the boy has blown off his steam, Harry flips the diary open again and Tom changes the subject.

_"Your Quidditch match against Slytherin is tomorrow, is it not?"_

_"Yeah, I don't think I'll be able to sleep much tonight."_

_"I suppose I'll excuse your lack of practising curses for today, though this is somewhat of a bother. I was going to introduce you to some quite infamous ones."_

Harry's innate curiosity is piqued immediately.  _"What infamous ones?"_

_"The Unforgivable Curses. They are still above your skill level as of yet, but theory can never hurt."_

He mouths it to himself quietly. Unforgivable Curses. That sounds even nastier than the Disintegration curse Tom insisted he should practice, prompting Harry to end up becoming the best insect murderer in Hogwarts.

He doesn't much like using the spells, and even Ron is starting to question if he should really be practising it after witnessing him blow a harmless fly into several pieces like the shattered shards of a window. Imagining an actual person instead of a fly is enough to elicit revulsion from Harry, but it's not like he's going to use these every day. It's for his own defence; if he uses it to blow up some insane serial killing Voldemort-follower, there'd be no one who would complain, right? They'd call him a hero, most likely.

So maybe magic really is just that,  _magic_. It has as many morals as a gun or a knife does. There's no reason to condemn entire branches of it, is there? There are still plenty of spells Harry is unlikely to use (The Entrails-Exploding spell sounds disgusting and unnecessarily cruel) but some of them he's starting to think aren't as bad as he first thought, as long as he uses them for a good reason.

Tom continues to tell him about the Unforgivable Curses, all most certainly illegal and none that Harry thinks he'll use. The Imperius curse sounds like the least harmful, though he understands that it can be used to coerce people into doing terrible things against their will. It is still a definite step up from the Cruciatus curse, and the big one: the Killing curse.  _  
_

_"I think it a quite merciful one,"_ Tom remarks offhandedly.  _"The victim feels no pain. Their heart and brain instantly shut down. There are dozens of curses that will kill you much more painfully, leaving you to wait out an agonising, slow death. The Killing curse hits much like a lightning strike."_

 _"Have you used it before?"_ Harry asks spontaneously, feeling disturbed to the core by the nonchalant way Tom refers to it, as if they were talking about stomping on ants. Human lives, no matter how "mercifully" they are taken, can never be regained. Murder is a horrible thing, and Harry hopes sincerely he'll never find himself in the situation where it is necessary.

 _"No,"_ Tom answers after the slightest pause, and Harry has no reason to doubt him.

* * *

The wind is so strong that the Gryffindor team staggers sideways as they walk out onto the field. If the crowd is cheering, they can't hear it over the fresh rolls of thunder. Rain is splattering over Harry's glasses, making everything a blur. How on earth is he going to see the Snitch in this?

The Slytherins approach from the opposite side of the field, wearing their standard green robes. The Captains walk up to each other and shake hands rougher than is necessary. Harry sees Madam Hooch's mouth form the words, "Mount your brooms."

He pulls his right foot out of the mud with a squelch and swings it over his Nimbus Two Thousand. Madam Hooch puts her whistle to her lips and gives it a blast that sounds shrill and distant. They're off.

Harry's initial fear is proven right; he can barely see anything through what appears to be a storm morphing into a hurricane, making it harder and harder to keep his broom straight. He starts losing track of time, shivering and soaked to the bone. Sometimes he catches glimpses of Malfoy's blond head, who doesn't seem to be doing any better than he is.

When Wood calls for a time-out Harry discovers they're about fifty points up, but it is meaningless if he can't catch the Snitch, and with his glasses it isn't going to work. Of course Hermione is there to save the day; she charms his glasses to repel water (reminding him of what the diary once did) and solves the problem.

Up in the air again, still wet and freezing but at least having his vision back, Harry searches for the Snitch once more with renewed determination. The thunder increases, and so does the lightning. During one such flashes, while looking around for a golden glimmering, Harry sees something that distracts him completely: the silhouette of a large black dog, motionless in the topmost, empty row of seats.

The flash is over and the dog is gone faster than Harry can blink, making him wonder if there was a dog at all.

"HARRY! BEHIND YOU!" comes Wood's anguished yell from the goalposts, making Harry turn his broom around with a sharp turn and curse loudly when he sees Malfoy diving for the Snitch.

He throws himself flat on the broom-handle and with a jolt of panic sets in an immediate chase.

But something odd is happening. An eerie silence is falling across the stadium. The wind, though as strong as ever, forgets to roar. It is as though someone turned off the sound, as though Harry has gone suddenly deaf—what is going on?

And then a horribly familiar wave of cold sweeps over him, inside him, just as he becomes aware of something moving on the field below, through the shades of grey and black. Before he has time to think, Harry takes his eyes off the Snitch and looks down.

At least a hundred dementors, their hidden faces pointing up at him, are floating beneath him, their cloaks soundlessly fluttering in the storm. It's as though freezing water is rising in his chest, cutting at his insides. He hears it again.

Lily Potter's last words.

_"Have mercy..."_

He falls down.

* * *

He could have just let the idiot fall to his death. He has the Snitch; what does he care what happens to Potter? He just won the game for Slytherin! He ought to fly down and celebrate with his team mates, gloat about his victory, and if he's lucky Potter will have broken a bone or two in the aftermath.

But as much as Draco wants to be the smart Slytherin he's always been, watching Potter faint and fall right off his broom just seems  _too_ pathetic for words. This is supposed to be his rival; what does it say about Draco if his nemesis faints like a girl and falls to his death in front of the entire school? Then there is also the fact that Potter, for whatever reason, saved him from walking right into that horrid prank Peeves had been playing on the students a few weeks ago.

He thought about that often, trying to figure out what possible motives Potter could have had in saving him from such humiliation. He would have thought it was exactly the kind of thing Potter would love to see him get tangled in, covered in bright yellow slime like Goyle for three whole days. Yet he'd warned him and spared him a most terrible three days.

Draco Malfoy is a Slytherin, and Slytherins are known for their self-preservation. What they're less known for, but what is equally true, is that they'll always return a favour.

And so, against all his better judgement and to  _everyone's_ shock, Draco dives for Potter with the Snitch clutched in his hand, grabs Harry's arm with his other hand, and it is only when he sees the crowd of dementors down below and a sudden cold ripples through his lungs that he realises that that old saying really  _is_  true.

A good deed never goes unpunished.


	6. Chapter 6

The shattered remnants of wood from his Nimbus Two Thousand lies on his lap as he is told that his saviour from his greatest tormentors is a boy who claims his father's accomplishments as his own. Harry couldn't be more frustrated.

As if to add to his terrible situation, Madam Pomfrey is resolute on keeping Harry in the hospital wing for the rest of the weekend. He mourns his best friend, keeping the broken pieces of wood on his nightstand. He has a stream of visitors that are all intent on cheering him up, from Hagrid sending him flowers that look like yellow cabbages to Ginny Weasley's poorly thought-out present of a get-well card that sings shrilly unless Harry keeps it shut under his fruit bowl.

The fact of the matter is that nothing can cheer him up from the sick feeling of humiliation—this time in front of the entire school, where he's saved by  _Malfoy_. The experience also does not do any favours to his sleep; whenever he dozes off, he sinks into dreams full of clammy, rotted hands and petrified pleading, jerking awake to dwell again on his mother's voice. Not having the diary here with him only makes it worse; at least if Tom was present he would have something to distract himself with.

It is a relief to return to the noise and bustle of the main school on Monday, where he's forced to think about other things. Slytherin is of course rather ecstatic at its victory over Gryffindor, but oddly enough, Malfoy does not partake in the celebrations. While he doesn't tell his fellows off for imitating Harry falling off his broom, he does not join in either, steering clear from the taunting altogether. Harry knows he should go thank him, but he can never find an opportunity; Malfoy is always surrounded by people.

"If Snape's teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts again, I'm skiving off," Ron says moodily as they head toward Lupin's classroom after lunch. "Check who's in there, Hermione."

Hermione peers warily around the classroom door for a moment, before turning to them with a smile. "It's okay!"

Professor Lupin is back at work. It certainly looks as though he has been ill. His old robes are hanging more loosely on him and there are dark shadows beneath his eyes; nevertheless, he smiles at the class as they take their seats, and they burst at once into an explosion of complaints about Snape's behaviour while Lupin was ill.

The man addresses their concerns with patience, and assures them that they  _won't_ have to write two rolls of parchment worth on a subject they barely even studied. After class he does call Harry to him, remarking he heard about the match, and inquires to his broom, to which Harry responds it's pretty much unsalvageable.

The talk inevitably devolves into dementors, and Harry instantly pours out his insecurities regarding the creatures. Why him? Why is he the only one so affected by them? Is he just weak?

The Professor corrects him at once. "The dementors affect you worse than the others because there are horrors in your past that the others don't have." A ray of wintry sunlight falls across the classroom, illuminating Lupin's grey hairs and the lines on his young face. Harry suddenly remembers that the night he lost his parents, Professor Lupin lost two of his best friends.

Their conversation ends after he brings up Sirius Black—the Professor seems to have a particular aversion to discussing it. Harry figures it probably brings back bad memories, and drops it for the moment.

When his lessons end for the day Harry almost bolts up to Gryffindor Tower, mumbling some excuse about having forgotten something in his dorms to Ron and Hermione.

To his relief his dorms are only inhabited by Seamus, who is taking a nap, and so he is free to talk to Tom in private. His handwriting is less than proper when he greets his friend, who does not greet him back and instead makes an immediate proposal.

" _I believe it is about time I taught you the Patronus charm."_

Apparently Tom heard all about the incident during the match from the other boys in the dorm talking about it frequently over the weekend, and is of the opinion that the dementors now take priority over the looming threat of Sirius Black, that still seems rather far away.

What with the promise of anti-dementor lessons, the thought that he might never have to hear his mother's death again and Ravenclaw flattening Slytherin in their Quidditch match at the end of November, Harry's mood takes a definite upturn. Gryffindor is not out of the running after all, although they can't afford to lose another match.

As such, Wood becomes repossessed of his manic energy, and works his team as hard as ever in the chilly haze of rain that persists into December.

Harry sees no hint of a dementor within the grounds. Dumbledore's anger, spoken of far and wide throughout the school, keeps them at their stations at the entrances.

Harry wonders if dementors can feel fear as well.

* * *

Hogsmeade looks like a Christmas card near the end of the month and Ron and Hermione both decide to stay at Hogwarts during the holidays. Ron claims it is because he won't be able to stand being around Percy and Hermione says she's staying to study more in the library, but it's easy to see through their little white lies. They're both staying to keep him company, and Harry couldn't be more relieved and grateful.

Still, even with his two best friends to keep him company, there is little that can be done to keep Harry from disappearing for an hour or two for a lesson with Tom.

The first lesson is little more than theory. Tom explains the basics of the spell, makes some footnotes here and there, and remarks on the subjectivity of the crux of its power when Harry asks if even the most awful people in the world could cast a Patronus.

" _That is the beauty of it,"_ Tom replies with a tone of humour.  _"Even the most deranged mass murderer, if properly trained, would be able to cast a Patronus as long as he or she thinks of something that makes them happy. It might even be their first murder, which would seem gruesome to you, but the spell depends entirely on one's own psyche."_

Harry isn't sure how anyone could think of their first murder as being their happiest moment (or why Tom finds this so delightful), but that's probably why he's Harry Potter and not aforementioned deranged mass murderer.

"What if you've barely known a happy moment?" he asks out of curiosity. Writing is no longer necessary; Tom can hear him just fine. Harry only writes to him when others are present nowadays. "If you've had a terrible life?"

" _Then the few happy moments you've had will stand out even more. Someone with a terrible life will be more affected by the dementors, but they also tend to be more skilled with the Patronus charm. Someone with a happy life, however, will be less affected by dementors, and might not even need the Patronus charm at all."_

It is easy to follow in theory, but in practice, Harry discovers, it's another thing entirely. His first time attempting to cast a Patronus in his dorms (during the second lesson) is when he thinks of the first time he learned to fly; it is insufficient, by a long shot. When he tries to perform the spell nothing but a waft of silver smoke blows out of the tip of his wand.

He would've been excited at the immediate progress as the spell is an incredibly difficult one to master, but he knows Tom is not at all impressed. When Harry tells him of the memory he used, Tom disapproves.

" _You'll need something far stronger than that, Harry. Flying must have been wonderful—once you got over your fear of falling to your death, that is. Do you understand? The memory or thought must be_ pure  _happiness. No other feeling can interfere."_

After several more tries with barely anything achieved, Harry grows frustrated as Tom once again shoots down his memory (this time of him going down to Hogsmeade with his friends), calling it too weak.

"What do  _you_ think about when casting a Patronus, then?" he says when his aggravation has reached its boiling point, scowling down at the diary.

"The first time I saw Hogwarts." a voice replies on his left.

Harry turns around to see a boy sitting on the edge of his bed, staring outside to the Great Lake. The surprise delays his understanding, but once it hits, it hits like a lightning strike.

Tom is no longer a vague shade, no longer a blur of colour and faint shape. His features are still a bit faded, as if Harry is looking at him through a fogged up window, but he is recognisable. On first glance anyone would think he's just another person, sitting there by himself.

Tom shifts his head to look at him and Harry is still wide-eyed, dumbstruck by his sudden appearance.

"You're… are you…"

"Free?" The clarity of his suave voice is odd, different from the distant echoes he'd grown used to. Tom's face has sharp, perfectly symmetrical features, his eyes just as dark as Harry saw from the diary's memories. "No, not yet. I cannot maintain this form for longer than a few minutes."

His expression is passive, and as he stands up Harry realises how short he is in comparison, the top of his head barely reaching Tom's shoulders. With his lean frame, his whole poise and aesthetic screams of something truly aristocratic. He has a definite Slytherin flair about him, but not in the way of Malfoy's childish arrogance. It is sheer charisma.

"I saw myself forced to materialise once I realised how terrible your form is." He moves towards him with a kind of grace that would've made Harry think he's floating had he not seen his feet moving, had he not heard the sharp tap of his heels on the floorboards. Tom's eyes scrutinise Harry's stance. He walks a slow circle around him before he says(/commands), "Try again."

Trying again is easier said than done when someone is watching your every move.

" _Expecto Patronum_ ," Harry pronounces with a motion of his wand, thinking faintly of when he bought Hedwig. The result is the same, and he lets out an irritated sigh. Tom's reaction is more calculated.

"There is no confidence in your posture, no will behind your words." he notes casually, coming to stand behind the young boy. Long, spindly fingers wrap around his wrist and push it up until his arm is outstretched right in front of him. Tom's hands feel colder than what is normal, not yet quite alive. They move to his slouched shoulders and pull them back until they're straight, and linger there. There's no warmth in his unnaturally ivory skin, no healthy red to his cheeks or his lips probably due to the absence of blood (does he have ink in his veins instead?), but Harry can still feel the pressure of his palms.

"Let me tell you a secret." Tom says, his breath brushing over Harry's hair and his voice soft enough to be a hiss but not quite that intense. "The mind can be tricked into believing anything, as long as the conviction is strong enough. All a skilled wizard really needs for this spell is an emulation of happiness. Repeat it enough times, and even a lie becomes the truth."

"So I just need to pretend to feel happy?"

"Pretence isn't enough, not for someone as inexperienced as you. For me, the mere word 'happiness' is enough to conjure a Patronus. For you, you'll need something more concrete. But eventually, yes, all you need to do is pretend."

One must be a magnificent liar indeed, to deceive his own mind.

Harry misses this underlying warning, and thinks Tom must just be that powerful. He stares ahead of himself, takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and searches for his happiest moment.

In his first year, when he looked into the mirror of Erised and saw his parents looking back. That sensation of warmth that no fire and no stream of sunlight can ever compare to, of awe and hope and excitement, of stars at the brightest peak of their fall, right before they burst and disappear into the endless, of fireworks that glitter and spark at their highest point, right before they die and are forgotten.

He has to catch that feeling at that exact moment, trap it and relive it, make himself  _believe_ in it.

Opening his eyes, still envisioning his parents smiling at him, he speaks the spell. " _Expecto Patronum!"_

Something shoots out his wand, brightens the room, feeling like a warm blanket during the coldest night. Harry can't make out a specific shape, and can only see that it's bigger than him, floating there as if trying to decide which shape to take. It disappears the very next second.

"I did it!" A smile lights up his face, and disappears a moment later when the door opens, before he's had the opportunity to face his teacher and share the victory.

"Did what, mate?" Ron asks, standing in the doorway with a confused look on his face. Harry blinks, gazing at Ron as his brain takes a while to register the sudden interruption, before he starts looking around the room.

Tom is gone.

* * *

On Christmas morning, Harry is awoken by a pillow to the face, courtesy of Ron.

"Oy! Presents!"

Ron semi-complains about the maroon sweater Mrs. Weasley sent him, Harry receiving his in scarlet, with a lion emblazoned on it, as well as a dozen home-baked mince pies, some Christmas cake, and a box of nut brittle. It is a long, thin package lying underneath everything else that really catches his attention, however.

The shape of the package alone is enough to make his heartbeat drum thunderously against his ribs, and he rips it apart immediately, until what's lying on his lap is the most beautiful broom he's ever seen.

It is the Firebolt, the dream that had been taunting him that summer from behind the glass of a shop in Diagon Alley. Both Ron and Harry are equal amounts dumbstruck and excited, but to their surprise, there is no note identifying the generous sender. They speculate immediately as to who it could've been, Ron first suspecting Dumbledore, then moving onto Lupin.

It is then that Hermione walks in, and instead of sharing in their elation when seeing the Firebolt, she looks disconcerted. Perhaps it is Tom's influence, his lessons having given him a hand in learning the skill of critical thinking, but Harry can tell what she's thinking of. What if the broom comes from someone less good-natured than Ron suggested?

"Harry, who sent you that?"

He's quiet for a moment, before promptly lying, "Professor Lupin."

It is just a little white lie. He knows that if he admits the broom has no card with it, notifying him who sent it, Hermione will most definitely tell a teacher who'll probably confiscate the thing, and that's the  _last_ thing he wants. Maybe it's a bit reckless of him, but he can just ask Tom to look it over for him later—the thought of that option being now available to him almost makes him smile.

Hermione looks sceptical of his claim and Harry has to covertly kick Ron in the shins to stop him from giving the lie away, but she makes no fuss about it and instead moves on to admiring the craftsmanship. Even if she isn't that interested in Quidditch, the skill in making the magical object intrigues her greatly.

When Ron then pleads with Harry to have a go on the marvellous broom, Crookshanks (whom Hermione brought in despite Ron's protests) springs from Seamus' bed onto Ron's chest.

"GET — HIM — OUT — OF — HERE!" Ron bellows as Crookshanks' claws rip his pyjamas and Scabbers attempts a wild escape over his shoulder. Ron seizes Scabbers by the tail and aims a misjudged kick at Crookshanks that hits the trunk at the end of Harry's bed, knocking it over and causing Ron to hop up and down, howling with pain.

Crookshanks' fur suddenly stands on end. A shrill, tinny, whistling fills the room. The Pocket Sneakoscope that Ron gave him as a birthday present last summer has become dislodged from Uncle Vernon's old socks and is whirling and gleaming on the floor.

"I forgot about that!" Harry says, bending down and picking up the Sneakoscope. "I never wear those socks if I can help it."

Aside from Ron and Hermione not speaking to each other after that incident, the rest of Christmas day passes pleasantly. Harry tries out his broom that afternoon anyway and nothing at all happens; it flies like a well-oiled machine, smooth to the touch and easy to control coupled with its excellent speed. There's also a dinner with the remaining school staff that Dumbledore somehow prevents from being awkward with his merry mannerisms.

When lying in his bed that night, Ron lounging on his own four-poster and flipping through a Quidditch magazine, he writes to Tom to talk about the day's events, and gets a peculiar response in return. Tom seems more interested in the Sneakoscope whistling than Harry acquiring the Firebolt.

" _Did you not find it odd at all?"_

Harry nearly knocks his ink-pot over in his haste to reply, having no idea why he should find it odd.  _"It's probably broken. It's been whistling all the time ever since school started."_

" _Are you sure it's malfunctioning?"_

" _What else could it be? I guess if it's not broken it was probably whistling because of Crookshanks."_

" _That's impossible, Harry. Sneakoscopes hardly work on animals, as they are merely following their instinct—an animal cannot be untrustworthy in the same way humans can."_

This is a large point of confusion for Harry, and also offence.  _"So either Ron or Hermione is untrustworthy?"_

" _I cannot say."_

The odd conversation ends there as Ron demands his attention, reading up some trivia about the Firebolt which he found inside the magazine. Harry decides to forget about the Sneakoscope, maintaining it has to be broken, even though his gut-feeling screams at him that  _something_ isn't right here.

Ron and Hermione can't be scheming against him, and since Tom ruled out Crookshanks, who else is left?

* * *

Everyone is mighty impressed by Harry's Firebolt when the holidays end, and Wood is ecstatic with the addition to their team, prompting him to train them even  _harder_. With the newly acquired broom Gryffindor finally has a real chance for the Cup. It's enough to put Harry in a mood where he's freshly determined to continue his good work in his classes—he hasn't had his homework late nor an essay over deadline in months, and all his teachers (with the exception of Snape) are very satisfied with his progress.

Some teachers, though, are looking a bit worse for wear than others. Professor Lupin doesn't look as healthy as he did at the start of the year.

"Still looks ill, doesn't he?" Ron remarks as they walk down the corridor, heading to dinner. "What d'you reckon's the matter with him?"

There's a loud and impatient "tuh" from behind them. It's Hermione, who's sitting at the feet of a suit of armour, repacking her bag, which is so full of books that it will barely close.

"And what are you tutting at us for?" Ron says irritably.

"Nothing," Hermione responds in a lofty voice, heaving her bag back over her shoulder.

"Yes, you were," Ron gripes, glaring at her. "I said I wonder what's wrong with Lupin, and you—"

"Well, isn't it obvious?" Hermione sneers, with a look of maddening superiority.

Harry suppresses a smile, being the only one to find humour in this situation as his two friends act like an old married couple.

"If you don't want to tell us, then  _don't_ ," Ron snaps, clearly fed up with Hermione's attitude.

"Fine," Hermione responds haughtily, and she marches off.

"She doesn't know," Ron mumbles, staring resentfully after Hermione, though it sounds more like he's trying to convince himself than inform Harry. "She's just trying to get us to talk to her again."

Harry doubts that sincerely.

When he asks Tom later that day in his empty dorm, watching him hold the loudly whistling Sneakoscope in his hand with a thoughtful look (Harry still isn't quite used to seeing him walk around like this, the sight making him pause every time), the answer he receives is rather astonishing.

"He's a werewolf." Tom states matter-of-factly, a stark contrast to Hermione's smug demeanour earlier that day as he doesn't even look up from the Sneakoscope, twisting it around between his fingers. "I think you may be right, Harry. It's probably broken." He hands the small object back with a disarming smile, and Harry numbly stuffs it back into Vernon's old socks.

"A  _werewolf_? But… then all the times he disappeared… of course! It was always around full moon!" Harry wants to slap himself for not having noticed it before. Snape's lesson on werewolves—the git was probably hoping that someone would be clever enough to figure it out. Unfortunately for him, the only two people that did were a student rather fond of Lupin and a memory inside a diary.

It certainly doesn't change the way Harry feels towards him. He's a great teacher and the condition is one he can't even help. He's sure Lupin and Dumbledore have found a way to work around it.

With that being out of the way, they move on to Harry's Patronus lesson. He's slowly booking progress, though Tom points out that conjuring a Patronus will be much more difficult in front of a dementor, advising him to mentally prepare himself.

"What's under a dementor's hood, anyway?" Harry asks, having wondered it for quite a while as he watches his vaguely-shaped Patronus fade away.

"You wouldn't want to find out," Tom replies smoothly, reading through the latest edition of the _Daily Prophet_ , seated on the edge of Harry's bed. "A dementor will only lower its hood when it's preparing to finish off their victim."

It is then that Harry learns of the chilling workings of a dementor's Kiss. Tom mentions nonchalantly that the Ministry has authorised the dementors to use it upon capturing Sirius Black, having just read it in the newspaper. His soul will be sucked out of him.

"Personally I think it a rather pointless punishment," Tom says, turning a page as he continues to read. "There is no actual suffering in it. Once you become an empty shell, it won't matter to you if you have a soul or not, will it? You might as well execute the convict; there's hardly any difference aside from the most minimal functioning of their body."

Harry isn't sure what to feel about that. Now he thinks about it, the whole idea of Azkaban seems rather monstrous to him. Even if the prisoners held there have done terrible things (but who's to say they all have—what if there is an innocent person among them?) aren't they, as the good guys, supposed to be better than that? Weren't they even going to send Hagrid to Azkaban all those years ago, had it not been for Dumbledore? The thought of his half-giant friend stuck between all those dementors makes Harry shudder.

When he tells Tom his thoughts on it, he's met with a loud laughter that somehow rings a bit… hollow to his ears. "Harry, please be realistic," he says in amusement, as if it's a  _joke_ to him. "Do you think it more likely that Azkaban was created for the sole purpose of housing criminals, or to keep extremely dangerous dark creatures well-fed and away from the general populace?"

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it slowly. "It's-it was made to feed the dementors?"

"Of course it was. What better way to keep them satisfied than to allow them to leach off society's outcasts?"

"But what if there are innocent people in there? What if—"

Tom looks up from his newspaper for the first time, a slight frown on his face. "There are most definitely a few innocent people in there. Human judgement is not infallible; statistically it is highly unlikely that there wouldn't be some misjudgements during court cases."

Harry wasn't prepared for that. Ever since the wizarding community was introduced to him, he thought of it as this wonderful place where injustices were non-existent, at least in the Ministry of Magic's case. They were  _wizards_ , they were morally righteous, or supposed to be—in a way, Harry supposes he's been holding them to a higher moral standard than muggles, forgetting all the while that both wizards and muggles are a part of a grander whole. Humanity.

He cannot accept this. "They can't do that!" The outrage thunders from his voice through the dorms. "They can't just toss people away to be food for dementors! We're supposed to be better than that!"

"And what else do you suggest the Ministry does to keep the dementors at bay?" Tom responds evenly, unperturbed by Harry's righteous anger. "Let them roam around freely?"

"I don't know, but this isn't the right way." Harry maintains stubbornly. After being personally affected by the dementors so heavily, the thought that an innocent person has to suffer through that for possibly years makes his stomach churn. "This isn't right at all."

"And I suppose you're going to find a solution, are you?"

"I will if I have to!" Harry retorts so vehemently he's almost surprised at how much he really means it.

Tom stares at him for a few seconds, the look in his eyes so intent that Harry is almost distracted from his indignation.

"What?" he asks, eyebrows furrowed deeply.

"I can't decide," Tom murmurs cryptically, seeming to be talking to himself more than Harry. "Is it immaturity, or strength?"

Before Harry can figure out what that's supposed to mean, Dean and Seamus walk in, Tom instantly vanishing from sight and dropping the newspaper on the edge of the bed, as if he'd never been there at all.

* * *

It seems that Crookshanks finally managed to eat Scabbers, and so it also seems that Ron and Hermione's friendship is forever finished. Harry personally is certain Ron will move on from it eventually, as it is hardly Hermione's fault that the cat listened to his natural instincts, but until then the two won't be on talking terms or even sitting-in-the-same-room terms anymore outside of classes.

Even Gryffindor's victory over Ravenclaw and the party afterwards isn't enough for the two of them to bury the hatchet. Harry isn't all that great of a mediator, in all honesty, so he isn't sure  _how_  he can have the two of them be friends again. He'll just have to wait it out.

Then, of course, everything takes a turn for the worst. Ron wakes up screaming and apparently Sirius Black somehow made it into Gryffindor Tower after Neville had stupidly written down the password and then  _lost_ the note.

His lessons with Tom immediately revert back to curses, as he'd been making sufficient progress with his Patronus, and for the first time Harry feels a vague sense of danger though it is not nearly enough to frighten him.

All in all, a Hogsmeade weekend is all that can keep him in a semi-happy mood, deciding together with Ron (as Hermione is upset with Harry for pointing out all the evidence does indicate Crookshanks ate the rat) to go see the Shrieking Shack for a bit after stuffing their mouths with delicious sweets from Honeydukes.

On top of the slope that offers the view of the Shrieking Shack, however, they find three other students already present; none other than Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle. Ron is already scowling, but when Malfoy catches sight of him, instead of sneering as he used to, he merely looks away and towards Harry instead, who realises this is the perfect opportunity to offer his thanks to Malfoy for not letting him fall to his death during that one Quidditch match.

He glances at Ron, who is eyeing him questioningly, before he moves ahead towards Malfoy. Crabbe and Goyle are on either side of the blond, attempting to look menacing, but Harry pays them no attention.

"Hey," he starts awkwardly, Malfoy eyeing him as if he's a terribly interesting though mildly irritating specimen of flubberworm. "I, er, never got to say thank you. For that one time."

Malfoy squints for a moment as if he's got no clue what Harry is blabbering about, until it seems to occur to him. "Ah.  _That_." He makes a gesture with his hand, like he's brushing it aside. "I was just paying back my debt."

Now it's Harry's turn to be puzzled. "What debt?"

"You warned me about that prank Peeves was playing with the Slime Grenades."

"Oh," Harry has no doubt that he looks incredibly sheepish, but this is  _weird_. Had you told him a year ago he'd be actually civil with Malfoy he would've called you a terrible liar, but it's actually happening, and he doesn't know what to think of it. It's much nicer than them trying to get on each other's nerves, in any case. "You're welcome?"

"A bit late for that, Potter." Malfoy responds glibly. "I don't owe you anything now, considering my debt is repaid."

"What, does that mean you're going back to being a prat?"

Malfoy's lips curl in the usual sneer for a moment. "Tempting, but I'll pass. I have better things to do." He motions to his two bodyguards, and the three of them turn their back on Harry (and Ron, who's been eyeing this all rather warily from a small distance). They've only taken a few steps when Harry stops Malfoy again by blurting out a sudden thought he doesn't think can hurt.

"You know," he starts, and Malfoy looks at him over his shoulder, annoyed at the interruption. "You, uh, you can be a pretty decent person, sometimes."

' _Great way to make an arse out of yourself, Harry.'_ he thinks when he sees Malfoy's eyebrows arch in a mocking look, seeming a bit amused at the clumsy statement.

"How  _kind_ of you to notice." he derides, though there isn't that malevolence to it that there used to be when he taunted Harry in the past, and he looks away, continuing down the slope and disappearing from sight with his two companions.

Harry stands there for a moment longer, and Ron walks up to join him, the two enjoying a moment in silence until Ron turns to him and with a completely serious expression says, "If you ever become friends with Malfoy, I'm disowning you as my best mate."

Harry doesn't doubt it.


	7. Chapter 7

Living within the diary often feels like what Tom imagines living within a Pensieve would feel like. It is the simplest thing to lose sight of time when you are confined to your own existence in a sub-dimension of reality; a tiny pocket of space inhabited by his soul.

Tom Riddle is not the diary, but during his more lonesome periods the line between his consciousness and the yellowed pages of the timeless journal thins until the leather cover is his body and the black ink is his tongue. In spite of his own mind's hallucinations, where every rustle of the paper feels like the fluttering of his robes, Tom Riddle is but a memory with its own will, chained. A snippet from an old newspaper futilely rewriting its own articles, never to be read.

At the time of its conception, the creator of the diary never intended for the extraordinary Horcrux to free itself—that is an idea that occurred to Tom Riddle later, as he dwelt in the abyss of his own past and became restless as years dripped and vanished into an ocean of immeasurable time. It is either a testament to Lord Voldemort's inability for self-reflection, or Tom Riddle's boundless ambition; even this fragment of his soul refuses to be defined as a mere safeguard to death for its original, even if said original loses a Horcrux in the process.

Naturally, Tom does not mind that single loss as the gain is so much greater. If he, young and strong and capable, joins forces with his original, they would be nigh unstoppable. Lord Voldemort is already immortal, so that is one goal that has been accomplished. Next only remains to exterminate their enemies and erase every last trace of muggles from the wizarding world. He operates under the assumption that Lord Voldemort will see the benefits of his joining him as well.

(Assumptions, he will learn in the future, are best left unmade.)

Even with all these plans laid out, however, the progress towards his freedom has meandered in a most unexpected yet fortuitous route. For Tom to regain his independence, another life  _must_ be sacrificed, but he could have never imagined that his victim would be none other than the infant that defeated his "alter ego" at the apex of his reign.

When he first saw those words, " _I am Harry Potter_ ", after all the inanities he was forced to endure from the Weasley girl, it felt as if Lady Luck herself owled him a Christmas present. His first victim will be the cause of his original's ruin; it can't be a more perfect revenge scenario.

And yet, things have been progressing… strangely. Ever since Tom coaxed Harry Potter into granting him access to his life's energy (much like he did with Ginny Weasley) the sixteen-plus-fifty year old memory certainly  _felt_ himself grow stronger every day, yet it had no effect on Potter whatsoever. It still doesn't. No weakening, no fatigue, no headaches, no opportune black-outs that allow him to take control of the boy's body, nothing. Absolutely nothing.

What's even more peculiar to Tom and what he has never quite moved on from is that moment in the beginning of their relationship, where he felt a connection with the boy before one was even established through blood magic. It cannot be kinship; Tom feels kinship with none as it implies equality, and no one can be equal to him. The sensation has more akin to a bond forced through magic, and yet he hasn't a clue what it could possibly be.

He still feels it now, an undercurrent of inexplicable recognition and familiarity. It is somewhat like a web of oddly connected strings tying them together in the most impossible ways, and it is vexing him endlessly that he doesn't know what is causing it. If the cause is known, then it can be solved. Treating the symptoms (blocking the sensations out) is temporary. Eventually it'll blow up in his face.

Nevertheless, things are moving according to schedule. In spite of the small aberrations here and there, the surge of power increases the more time ticks on. He's on a train that is gaining speed the further it travels, and he can see the station if he looks out the window. It won't be long until he has his own body and he can do away with the one black stain on his record; the green-eyed child.

If Harry Potter hadn't been his enemy, Tom knows he'd be practical enough to welcome him as a follower had such a chance ever existed. Even at the tender age of thirteen he has a great affinity for curses and offensive spell work in general; coupled with his natural reflexes, he would've become a fine wizard and a highly skilled duellist. With the right training, he would be a truly fearsome dark wizard. Recruitment would certainly be an option, had his death not been marked on a calendar (though not even Tom knows the exact date yet).

If nothing else, at least Potter has made for a much better conversational partner than the previous holder of his diary, whose insecure, preteen, superficial verbal vomit was often a strain on his patience. Potter's own naivety and general ignorance on the more formidable sides of magic has been irksome as well, but nothing he didn't expect from  _The Boy Who Lived_ , and nothing that can't be rectified.

In a way, Tom enjoys the process of "corrupting" his young mind, though that is the word only the ignorant would use seriously. The lack of education on the Dark Arts in Hogwarts has always been a big point of disappointment for him when he was a student there himself, but perhaps his expectations of Hogwarts were always too high. It is no surprise that Potter has no insight on the other side of the coin that is magic.

Still, for all his lack of development in multiple areas, there's something about the boy that Tom only caught a glimpse of when they conversed on the topic of Azkaban. There is a burning there, an unstoppable force of determination that Tom isn't sure Potter even realises he possesses. It is the kind of tenacity that revolves around dangerous recklessness and lasting impulse.

Ordinarily Tom would not have been intrigued; people without impulse control are often the most predictable. Yet Potter's impulses, that lean towards the sort of idealistic and optimistic principles that have always been so foreign to Tom, are an immeasurable factor. It arouses curiosity, but also alarm.

He must eliminate this threat as soon as possible. Naturally, teaching him all these curses would seem counter-productive, but in actuality it will give him full knowledge of Potter's skills, of his arsenal of spells. When the time comes, even if Potter fights back, it will all be futile. Tom will know all his tricks.

When Potter then comes to him once more on a windy February afternoon and they continue their lessons in curses, Tom thinks it is time to test the mettle of his destined enemy.

"You need to participate in a duel," he says, and is met with wide eyes. "You cannot practice these curses forever. There is no better way to learn than through experience."

Breathing in air still feels as dream-like as it did the first time he manifested. Oxygen that travels through his lungs, heartbeat that keeps the fluid in his veins pumping—he is so close to becoming a real person that it is starting to get increasingly difficult to remain patient. Yet he must; he can feel that Potter has much more to give him, even if he cannot figure out how that is possible without the boy weakening.

"Duel who?" Potter asks reluctantly.

"Do you not have a duelling club?" When he shakes his head Tom feels somewhat exasperated with how pathetic Hogwarts has become. "Challenge someone for a friendly spar, then. What of that Malfoy boy?"

Potter looks contemplative, watching Tom walk about the dorms in a somewhat bored manner, searching for something interesting to read.

"I did duel him before, but it got interrupted."

"How so?" Tom inquires, though he's only half-interested in the response.

"Well, he shot a snake at me, from his wand," Potter begins. "And then I started talking to it, so the duel was—"

Tom freezes, head snapping up from the Quidditch magazine he was perusing as he stares at Potter as if seeing him for the first time. "You talked to a snake? It could understand you?"

Potter flushes an embarrassed deep pink. "Yeah. I can speak Parseltongue. It happened once before, during Dudley's birthday, and, er, during that duel."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" Tom says after a long pause, doing his best to hide his agitation, his tone quiet, albeit strained.

"It-it slipped my mind."

"It slipped your—" Tom looks away and takes a deep breath through his nostrils. How is this possible? The only ones who should be able to speak Parseltongue are Salazar Slytherin's descendants. The Potter lineage is certainly not part of that group— _he_  should be the only Parselmouth still living today.

"Tom?" It's only when Potter says his name with a somewhat anxious look on his face that Tom realises his behaviour is giving the boy a negative impression.

He twists his lips in a flawlessly rehearsed smile, reassuring Potter instantly. "I'm sorry, Harry, you just took me by surprise for a moment." He does not reveal his own gift; small though the chance may be, Potter could link it back to the heir of Slytherin.

"That's fine, I mean, I used to think talking to snakes was a normal thing for wizards at first."

Tom notices the odd contrast to himself when he'd first learned of his gift; five-year old Tom Riddle had been convinced it was a special talent unique to him only. It seems he will never cease to be surprised by this boy.

"Harry," he says after a brief silence. "How have you been doing lately?"

"Erm, fine, really."

"You're in good health, I take it?"

"Yeah, nothing to complain about."

Tom nods once and turns to look out the window, contemplating if Potter's magical core is really that large, or if there's something wrong with their link. This oddity, not the first one in a string of oddities relating to the boy, is one in particular that he cannot let go. It goes against the way the magic is supposed to work. Even if he gains more power by the day, to have such a blatant irregularity remain unexplained is getting on his nerves.

For the next few days Tom appears distracted and strangely quiet to Harry, who wonders but could not possibly guess at the reason for his friend's peculiar demeanour.

* * *

February fades into March, and Tom decides that being stuck inside the diary for a majority of the day is a nuisance he's put up with long enough.

While he is fully aware of his environment, not being able to actually interact with it has been a great frustration to him, one he thinks he can now overcome as he has become stronger very rapidly in the past few months. When manifested in the dorms, he starts flexing some of his ever-increasing magical power. He can make objects levitate, exercise some force by making things combust at will, and is quite capable of Legilimency (though it drains him quickly).

Then he starts toying with the idea of invisibility.

Theoretically it  _is_  possible. If he utilises the bond the diary has expressly with Potter, then he should be able to control being visible just to the boy and no outsiders. He does not have a body, after all. He is but a shard of a soul, just a step above poltergeists.

Attempting it will be a bit risky. If he does not get it right in his first try, he'll be exposed to others, but as always, Tom is fully confident in his ability, and predictably, by the time March is halfway through, he gets it right in his first try.

When he and Harry are once more having a conversation in the otherwise empty dorms, Weasley and two other boys Tom never bothered to memorise the names of enter with loud chatter.

"Hey, Harry." Weasley greets the boy, walking right past Tom. Potter is flabbergasted, eyes wildly flitting from Tom to his friend. "Something wrong, mate? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Tom chuckles softly as Potter blinks twice, shaking his head while the corners of his mouth curve upwards. "Yeah, m'fine. Just a bit tired, is all."

His manifestations increase both in frequency and his length as Tom continues to work on extending both factors. It gets to the point where it might be detrimental to Potter's education, what with Tom walking around during lessons or tormenting Crabbe and Goyle (he enjoys writing down random threats of gruesome violence and torture in their notebooks when they're not looking, and watching their panicked reaction). Potter often prefers to watch him instead of listening to the teacher.

"Mr. Potter," Snape sneers during one Potions lesson, having caught his student's distracted behaviour. "Perhaps you would like to inform the class of the answer?"

Tom, who had been tying Goyle's shoelaces together with magic (Potter's idea), supplies him with a response to the question of what ingredient is a staple in most Explosive Potions. "Dragon scales."

"It's dragon scales, sir." Potter repeats instantly.

The look on Snape's face is hardly flattering. "Five points from Gryffindor."

Potter opens his mouth to protest hotly but catches Tom's intent look. "Nod and apologise."

Potter looks scandalised.

"Just do it."

And so he does, reluctantly. The look on Snape's face when he hears the word 'sorry' come out of Potter's mouth is entirely worth it.

It does become a bit of a problem in certain areas, though. On one occasion Tom accidentally walks into a student, literally. The girl turns pale and nearly faints on the spot. Clearly walking around the hallways with Potter in between lessons isn't an option after this revelation, which is a bit of a bother as he always delighted in roaming the castle in his own time at Hogwarts.

Still, all things considered, Tom should feel ecstatic with the progress he's booking, but there's an alarming feeling of disquietude that prevents any sort of satisfaction. He sinks into longer periods of thought, his distraction and silence even palpable to Potter.

 _"Is everything okay?"_ he writes to Tom on the evening of Gryffindor's final victory over Hufflepuff, capturing the Quidditch Cup. The sounds of celebration lasted until the early morning hours, and apparently Potter still can't sleep, his energy rolling off him in waves.  _"You've been really quiet lately."_  he adds when Tom doesn't immediately respond.

He considers weaving a quick lie to put the boy to rest, but his creativity is low and he settles for evasion.

" _Go to sleep, Harry."_

It is either his influence or Potter's own benevolence that makes him listen to Tom; either way he feels the diary close shut and the lack of warmth from familiar hands a moment later.

Once more, he is alone.

* * *

Change begins on a breezy but sunny Thursday afternoon near the end of April when Potter groans at his Transfiguration homework and, rather than aiding him as he tends to do, Tom amuses himself by watching the mental gymnastics that get more ridiculous as time goes on.

"But, wait, that doesn't make sense!" Potter scowls at his textbook, holding it up and looking to be on the verge of attempting to shake the answers out of it, his essay only half-written. "You can conjure water out of thin air with a charm, but not food? Or transform something else into food? Or money?  _What_?"

"Food and money are both part of the Five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration." Tom supplies unhelpfully, sitting on Potter's bed and playing wizard's chess against himself. "Pawn to E5."

"Oh," Potter replies slowly, putting his textbook down again and starting to peruse it, probably searching for the thing Tom just mentioned, who watches a white knight get destroyed by a black pawn before looking up expectantly for the boy to ask another question.

He doesn't. Potter looks perfectly satisfied with Tom's answer and whatever information he's found in the book, and does not question it further. He knows he should hardly care about what Potter knows about Transfiguration since he's destined to die before the school year is up, but this irks him to the point where he  _has_ to say something and correct the record.

"You're content with that answer?"

Potter looks up, a startled look on his face. "Er… yeah, I guess." he says after a hesitant pause. "If it's part of magical law or whatever—"

"It isn't."

"What?"

Tom sighs deeply, putting the chessboard aside on Potter's night-stand and shifting over to the edge of the bed where Potter is seated, snatching the textbook out of his grasp and throwing it aside, the book landing on the ground with a harsh thud.

"What are you _doing_?"

"Forget whatever drivel you've read from that book—I am disappointed in you, Harry," he scolds lightly. "I thought I taught you better than to simply swallow everything you're told."

"But—"

"Magical law  _does not exist._ "

Potter blinks once, twice, his mouth opens and closes and at least five seconds pass before he seems to finally process Tom's statement. "Of course it does, there's-there's limits for every branch of magic."

"That's what you've been taught as a result of the wilful ignorance and cowardice of dozens of generations. They pretend magic is something that can be defined in numbers, formulas, wand movements and Latin phrases—Potions and Arithmancy are the most scientific branches there are. Transfiguration, on the other hand, has been restricted because of mere politics." He becomes more frustrated by this subject than he should, loses that sliver of self-control out of resentment.

Potter is still a child, but he isn't stupid. He understands what Tom is getting at, but because of being told the opposite for three years in a row, he has difficulty accepting it, seeming more inclined to doubt Tom, to doubt the person who has taught him more in a few months than his entire Hogwarts career so far—the little ingrate. "So you're saying Professor McGonagall is wrong? All those textbooks written on Transfiguration are wrong?"

"In part, yes." Tom responds briskly. "What do you think magic is, Potter? Do you think it can be defined by mathematics, explained by physics, categorised as a science? The whole point of magic is that it's  _outside_ the laws of nature that the muggles swear by. It is an undefinable variable, inexplicable and in a category of its own. Magical law does not exist; magic is by definition lawless, only restricted by human ineptitude."

To prove his point, he grabs Potter's wand and his quill (realises only then that he has misspoken and called him Potter instead of Harry), and with a flick of the wand (that bends surprisingly easily to his will) it turns into an apple. Potter's jaw drops as Tom calmly hands him the apple, feeling a large chunk of his magic now drained.

(Though he feels it's worth it. He isn't sure  _why_ he feels it's worth wasting magic just to show Potter that little trick—some part of him realises with cold dread that he does not even truly consider it a waste. That he considers it completely rational, despite there being no real justification behind it; no particular benefit for him, no gain, no leverage. And yet he did it without thinking, as if it came naturally.

Somewhere along the line, teaching Potter became enjoyable.)

It is also curious how well Potter's wand fit in his hand, the sensation familiar and reminding him of his own. It will do as a fitting replacement once its owner is out of the way.

"How… how did you... but the book clearly said—"

"Forget about the book." Tom snaps as his temper escapes from him, and his body tenses as his mind has started losing grip on the realm of cold logic, starting to meddle in the unpredictable factor of emotional attachment, something that equates always to weakness, always to failure, always to the unknown, and in turn, unnerves him. "You can transform anything with enough concentration and enough willpower. Why should you be able to turn a cup into a rat but not a carrot? Magic makes no distinctions, or exceptions;  _we_ do.

"Of course they would never tell the general public this. If people could make their own money, their own food, make their own houses and clothes, what need would there be for currency, society, economy? The Ministry of Magic would be crippled and lose its control over the working class, and the entirety of the wizarding world would collapse on itself."

In part, Tom has Albus Dumbledore to thank for this discovery; it came down to a stubborn thirteen year old prodigy burning to prove the renown Transfiguration Professor wrong when introduced to the Five Principal Exceptions. He is certain Dumbledore too is aware that these limits are man-made, so his supposed victory rang a bit hollow at the time, but the accomplishment opened up a door to a new world of possibilities.

If left to the imagination, if controlled by sheer mental fortitude, is there anything that isn't possible with magic? They have only scratched the bare surface of its true capacity, and no one seems to realise it or care at all to explore further. They squander their potential, blind sheep that have been tricked into thinking a fence surrounds them when they're standing in an endless meadow. It sickens him, elicits revulsion towards his fellow man that could turn him (has already turned Lord Voldemort) into a person lacking any regard for the lives around him. They cannot see what he sees; they're too feeble, too dim-witted and too frightened. Therefore, they are worthless.

"Is that..." Potter clears his throat, eyes still fixated on the forbidden fruit, seeming in doubt for the briefest moment before his expression becomes thoughtful. "Can you teach me that as well?"

But perhaps, reflected in the wonder-filled green eyes of this curious boy that always prods him for more knowledge, there is a chance for redemption.

"Do you truly wish to learn it?" Tom asks quietly, hoping both for a yes and a no answer. There is an ambition that is split in two ways; the scholar within him delights, while Voldemort (still young, but adamant) is immensely frustrated. This is not the plan, this was never the plan. Everything deviates, the screws are loosened up and the seams are splitting, and he doesn't know how to stop it, this new-found indulgence.

It is so refreshing, such a different route altogether that he cannot help but be coaxed into it by his own fascination. He should be panic-stricken by how fast Potter is picking all this up, how eager he is to learn, to  _grow_ , but as Tom looks at him now and sees a child that has barely reached his transition into adolescence, he cannot see him as a threat.

( _'A pupil,'_  he realises in an internal moment of horror.  _'I am attached to him as my pupil.'_

_'Attachment is weakness.'_

_'Weakness is intolerable.'_

_'I must kill him, as soon as possible.'_

_'He_ _must_ _die.'_ )

"Yeah, I'd like to know." Potter says, and takes a bite out of the apple.

* * *

7 May, 1994.

It has to happen tonight.

Sirius Black will probably be cross with him for stealing his kill, but Tom can delay no longer. The final piece is needed for him to reach freedom and for that cause, Potter has to die tonight.

The boy has been mostly focused on his studies for the past few days as summer break approaches, being in the midst of his exams, though there are some distractions, as always. Potter has become restless, mainly because of the letter he received a few days ago from the Minister of Magic, which caused quite a commotion, even leading Dumbledore himself to call him up to his office for a private conversation the very next morning.

When Harry—Potter, when  _Potter_  returned to the dorms, he looked a bit fidgety. Weasley of course wanted to know all about it. The Minister had written to Har— _Potter_ about his family situation which the Ministry looked into and found, after a thorough investigation which involved the interrogation of Vernon Dursley, that the home was quite unsuitable for Har—for Potter—

( _'Damn it all.'_ )

—for Harry to reside in any longer. On grounds of severe psychological abuse from his aunt and uncle, and frequent physical assault from his cousin, they were going to remove him from the Dursleys. They already found numerous foster families that would be delighted in taking him in, but assured they'd be taking his preference into consideration.

Tom thought Harry would be ecstatic at the prospect, and he did look rather triumphant for a while, but he doesn't look as certain of his victory any more after his conversation with Dumbledore.

"He said..." Harry, sitting on Weasley's bed and talking to him in hushed tones, looks paler than usual. "He said that when my mum sacrificed her life to save me, she cast some sort of magic ward over me that made Voldemort's curse bounce back."

Tom stands very, very still.

"So... so what, love magic? That's what saved you?" Weasley inquires with a frown. "I always thought that stuff only happened in fairy tales. But what's that got to do with the Dursleys?"

The power of love? That's what had defeated Lord Voldemort? A mother's love for her child?

"Well," Harry takes a deep breath. "My aunt Petunia is from my mum's side of the family. Same blood, so, as long as I'm with her, the ward will make sure no one can harm me."

Tom exhales and his lips twitch in a nearly maniacal smirk, as he suppresses the bubbling of laughter pressing to escape his chest.

It wasn't love magic that protected Harry at all, it was blood magic.

 _Blood magic_ of all things, though unintentional, but blood magic nonetheless. That same branch of magic considered so vile to most of society until it becomes useful to them—noble, even. Lily Potter, the sacrificial lamb that offered her neck to the butcher, her blood protecting her son. A life for a life.

Oh, the sweet hypocrisy.

"You aren't going back to the Dursleys, are you?" Weasley whispers while the rest of their room-mates snore on. "I'm sure the ward is great and all, but there have to be other ways to protect you."

Harry looks hesitant. "It's not like I  _want_ to go back, but... but it's just that if Voldemort ever returns, this is the only sure method to keep me safe."

"Oh, come on, mate! You're not seriously considering—"

"I don't know, Ron!" Harry hisses at the redhead, looking rather bleak. "Dumbledore said it's up to me, but I think he'd prefer it if I... if I stayed with the Dursleys. At least until I turn seventeen, that's when it stops working. Hermione thinks so too."

"But you didn't tell Hermione about how they locked up all your belongings, did you?" Weasley points out with an angry look, his friend becoming guilty as he had only very recently admitted to all that the Dursleys put him through the past few years. "Harry, you can't stay with these people, magic ward or not."

"I need some time to think about it." Harry decides, effectively putting a full stop behind the conversation.

Tom, having regained his composure now Harry is giving him periodic anxious glances, ruminates on why Dumbledore is so intent on having the boy remain with the abusive muggles. He isn't too concerned about the ward itself as Harry's death has already been planned for tonight, but from what he knows of the old fool ever-preaching on compassion and understanding and love, it wholly goes against the psychological profile Tom has built up in his head of the Headmaster. While Dumbledore is not afraid to play his pawns, this looks  _senseless_. There is no absolute logic that can justify complete security in unhappy circumstances taking precedence over slightly less security in much happier circumstances. On an ethical level, it does not hold up.

Then again, Tom has been under the assumption that Dumbledore's attachment to Harry (much like his own, a treacherous part of his subconscious reminds him) has been that of a mentor to a pupil. Now he actually puts thought into it, the assumption seems baseless. Why should the legendary Albus Dumbledore attach himself to a boy whose skills and talents are only in a few areas exceptional and most others mediocre, as is typical for your everyday student? Aside from a few select moments of private conversations, Dumbledore does not even seem that particularly concerned with the boy otherwise, choosing for a cold, calculated approach that puts Harry's general survival above any and all happiness and mental health.

Furthermore, even if one were to suppose the attachment was spawned purely because of what Harry "did", it all becomes rather illogical when one realises that Harry did not defeat Lord Voldemort at all and didn't really "do" anything. As far as Tom is concerned, the actual vanquisher of the Dark Lord is Lily Potter, not her son who sat obliviously wrapped in her protective ward at the age of one.  _She_ should be the one to be lauded and praised into eternity, and yet everyone puts Harry on a pedestal, worships him as if he had accomplished a great feat just by existing. Dumbledore never corrected the public's misconception. He allowed Harry to be seen as their great rescuer.

Why? What does he know about Harry that justifies this charade? Why pit him, this boy, this mere  _child_ , against the greatest dark wizard history has ever seen, knowing failure is imminent?

The lack of knowledge is unsettling. Tom feels that he is missing a vital piece of information that could destroy every supposition made so far, every hypothesis and every scheme laid out, but he has no way of finding out at the moment. Patience, once more, is required.

Harry stands up and briefly distracts him as he mutters about packing his books for the day while Weasley mentions something about visiting the gamekeeper, the half-giant, after classes.

"Take the diary with you," Tom says quietly to Harry, thinking it better if he keeps an eye on the boy for the majority of the day in case an opportunity presents itself. It would be ideal to rip out the last of Harry's life force outside on the grounds, where getting away from the anti-Apparition wards is easier.

The unsuspecting boy does exactly as he's told, not knowing he is signing away on his own death sentence. It seems almost unfitting to end it so simply, to murder him through betrayal instead of any actual skill. It leaves him with a lingering feeling of distaste that is otherwise irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, but perhaps remarkable in the fact that the cause of it is not a point of pride, but another kind of emotion.

It is not fondness, or respect, or even sympathy. It could be compared to nurturing a plant for a few days in a large garden as a hobby and eventually finding that it is in the garden's best interest to uproot it and get rid of it. This pitying sort of sensation he experiences at planning a murder is something most people would find incredibly unsettling, yet it is the most he has ever felt for one of his victims. The mudblood girl, his muggle father and his muggle grandparents were all weeds he was happy to get rid of, the latter two particularly inspired by personal resentment. The former is what he believed to be his duty as Salazar Slytherin's heir, his heritage being one of the few things of any value to him.

Harry is the first one that is different. He will be the one breaking the pattern of cold-blooded or rage-filled murder; killing him will almost feel like a waste. The aberration in his thinking is a first, and the mere potential and implication of it is enough to disturb him. Had it taken a year more, could Tom have been  _reluctant_ to kill him? Could he eventually have come to regret it, had he allowed for this to develop further? The thought nauseates him in its suggestion of sheer vulnerability, of weakness. It is a relief to know that it will all be ending tonight.

Harry and his friend eventually leave the dorms, Tom following closely behind them. While he cannot be seen by anyone else but Harry, he has enough physical presence to be hindered by doors and walls. Once they leave the portrait hole, they encounter another one of Harry's friends; the muggleborn witch.

For a mudblood, she is impressive. Certainly the brightest student in the third year, somehow having found a way to take most subjects on even though there would be obvious conflicts in her schedule. Blood, as it is, is not so much indicative of a definite inferiority for Tom as it is a mere observation of the statistical likelihood that muggleborns start not only with a disadvantage, but that they are also a risk.

His view on them is less based on prejudice and more based on a factually perceived danger, and an ignorance he believes they harbour that can render their studies in Hogwarts ultimately valueless as most muggleborns often choose to return to the world they know instead of integrating. It is understandable, but inexcusable, and his lack of empathy and sense of apathy is what makes his approach to them so cruel. Why accept them into these schools, why risk these incidents of exposure, just to train students who will most likely never truly appreciate what they are taught?

At this stage in his life, retaining the mindset and logic of his sixteen year old self, there is very little hatred, and more a sort of loathing similar to that of when one encounters a cockroach in their kitchen.

Yet, some exceptions can be made. Hermione Granger has proven herself to be one of those exceptions—her personal circumstances he is willing to overlook as she is extremely intelligent and naturally skilled, thus promises to make significant contributions to society. Most muggleborns make little to no actual contribution. Therefore, from a very practical (a very cold-blooded) perspective, there is no point in keeping them around, in accepting them.

Granger, in any case, is entirely ignorant of the manifested Horcrux hovering around and examining her. She and the Weasley boy have still been in a bit of a fight, but apparently Harry's dilemma is enough to bring them together once more as Weasley immediately pulls her aside.

"Did you tell him to stay with the Dursleys? Are you mad?!"

"I thought you weren't talking to me anymore?" Granger says, pulling up her nose and looking away pointedly.

"They took away his books, you know!" Weasley continues, ignoring her sneer. "They always make him lock away all his stuff so he can't do his homework, and wait until I tell you about the cupboard—"

"They did  _what_?" Granger shrieks as if she's been stung by a bee, spinning around wildly to face Harry who looks as if he's fervently wishing to sink into the wall behind him. "Harry, why didn't you tell me? Does Professor Dumbledore know?"

Harry glances at Tom, eyes pleading for him to provide an escape, but Tom is not at all inclined to start interfering in this dispute since it does not matter  _what_ Harry chooses in the end. He merely smiles pleasantly as if there  _wasn't_  a girl screeching like a particularly offended banshee and assaulting his eardrums in the corridor.

Ultimately, in spite of both his friends teaming up on him, Harry manages to escape by reminding them they'll be late for class if they keep standing around, the common room behind them nearly completely empty. Tom follows.

* * *

The classes pass smoothly, Harry choosing to actually pay attention to his teachers, no doubt if only to get away from Granger and Weasley's constant badgering. Tom does not interact much with him, most of the lessons choosing to stand around near the windows and look outside, pondering things such as how the wind will feel to his skin when blood finally gives it warmth. As he is now, he feels barely anything from sunlight or cold breezes. He wonders what his first meal should be, how it will taste after having gone all that time without food. He  _can_ actually eat, but it is unnecessary, and he thinks it would only be a poor imitation of the real experience.

Most of all, though, he looks forward of having his own wand again, being once more at full power, to relive that thrill of complete control of the entire force of his magic. His freedom is but a few hours away, but the closer it approaches the slower time ticks and the tenser he becomes. He is a patient young man, but he is not a saint.

When the three children venture outside after classes, Tom stays at a distance, lest they hear or see his footsteps in the grass. He has very little interest in the visit to the gamekeeper, and decides to stay outside—it is too small in the clumsily built cabin, and he is not certain if he gives off any scent, but if he does then that large mongrel the half-giant calls a pet will certainly pick up on it.

He walks along leisurely in the back-garden as he waits for the visit to end, watching the sun on its daily routine of sinking into death, all its golden light becoming discoloured to orange and red and pink in the sky as it's slowly pulled down while darkness creeps. There are noises from inside, none that really pique his interest; he is making plans to track down his original, going down a list of locations to search as soon as he is done here.

It is only when about fifteen minutes later the kids come out again and making quite a commotion that Tom is for the first time distracted from his contemplation, and pays attention to whatever it is the children are up to this time.

Weasley is holding something in his hands that is squealing rather wildly.

"Oh, please, Ron," Granger begins irritably, glancing at him over her shoulder.

"It's Scabbers—he won't—stay put—"

Weasley is bent over, trying to keep Scabbers in his pocket, but the rat is going berserk; squeaking madly, twisting and flailing, trying to sink his teeth into Weasley's hand. Apparently the rodent hadn't been eaten by Granger's cat after all.

Pity. Tom never liked rodents.

"Scabbers, it's me, you idiot! It's Ron!" Weasley snaps in frustration.

They walk forward once more, or at least, attempt to. Tom faintly wonders why they don't just stun the creature and be done with it; all this upheaval over such a tiny thing is getting on his last nerve. They've walked up the slope to where the cabin is now quite a few meters away, but once again, Weasley stops and struggles.

"I can't hold him—"

Scabbers looks plainly terrified. He's writhing with all his might, trying to break free of his owner's grip. There's something really off with that rat, but Tom doesn't care enough to spare any synapses to the thinking process of figuring out the cause.

"What's the matter with him?" Harry asks with a frown, edging closer to Weasley and his rat to get a better look.

Then—stalking toward them, his body low to the ground, wide yellow eyes glinting eerily in the darkness—Crookshanks. Tom notices the cat first from his peripheral vision, and is actually glad that the feline is here. Perhaps it can finally put an end to all this nonsense. Whether said cat can see them or is following the sound of Scabbers' squeaks, Tom can't tell, but he hopes either way that it will swallow down that bloody rat.

"Crookshanks!" Granger moans. "No, go away, Crookshanks! Go away!"

But the cat is getting nearer—

"Scabbers, NO!"

Too late; the rat slips between Weasley's clutching fingers, hits the ground, and scampers away. In one bound, Crookshanks springs after him, and before anyone can stop him, Ron pelts away into the darkness, chasing the two animals. Tom almost chuckles, but reminds himself he's within Granger's hearing range.

"Ron!" Granger calls after him, futilely.

She and Harry look at each other, then follow at a sprint; they can hear his feet thundering along ahead and his shouts at Crookshanks, but with it being evening and the sun having gone down it makes everything a lot harder. Tom is not at all happy at having to run now, following after three dim-wits who didn't think to simply petrify the rat in the first place, but he has little choice.

"Get away from him, get away—Scabbers, come here—"

There's a loud thud, shadows moving.

"Gotcha! Get off, you stinking cat—"

Harry and Hermione almost fall over Weasley; they skid to a stop right in front of him. He's sprawled on the ground, but Scabbers is back in his pocket. He has both hands held tight over the quivering lump.

"Ron, get up—Crookshanks! Bad, very bad!" Granger scolds the hissing cat and reaches down to help up Weasley together with Harry. Tom watches with an annoyed frown.

But before Weasley can even stand up, before they can catch their breath, they hear the soft pounding of gigantic paws rustling the grass and thudding on the hard earth below.

Something is bounding toward them, quiet as a shadow—an enormous, pale-eyed, jet-black dog.

Tom raises his eyebrows at the ridiculous turn of events. First a cat, now a dog? Dogs aren't known for chasing rats, unless the dog was attracted by the noise and has a case of rabies or is particularly aggressive. Odd that a stray dog should wander this far into the grounds, however.

And yet, no one is really doing anything but  _staring_ at it as it approaches.

"Harry, use your wand," he hisses impatiently into the boy's ear, which seems to wake him up as he pulls it out and aims for the dog.

Harry opens his mouth to fire a spell, but too late—the dog makes an enormous leap and the front paws hit him on the chest; he keels over backward in a whirl of hair. Tom moves away in the nick of time, and the dog backs away, turning its sharp teeth elsewhere.

Weasley has the misfortune of feeling the force of said teeth as they bury into the flesh of his leg. Harry lunges forward, stupidly seizing a handful of the brute's hair instead of using his wand, but it's dragging Weasley away as easily as though he were a rag doll. Tom considers taking Harry's wand from him and handling this himself.

Then, out of nowhere, something hits Harry so hard across the face he's knocked off his feet again, whatever it is that hit him narrowly missing Tom's cheek—he can feel a sharp whip of air hitting his skin. Next to them Granger is hit in the stomach and falls down onto the ground as well. Tom can make out faint shapes of something huge moving in the dark but with the sky having gotten even darker it is hard to make out clearly.

" _Lumos_!"

The bright light from Harry's wand illuminates the trunk of a thick and old tree; they've chased Scabbers into the shadow of the Whomping Willow and its branches are creaking as though in a high wind, whipping backward and forward to stop them going nearer.

Tom is not amused. He isn't all that familiar with this tree as it was planted quite a while after his time, but seeing as it seems to be a magical tree, he doubts many spells would work against it effectively. He smoothly moves out of the reach of its branches.

"Try the immobilising spell," he calls to Harry who narrowly rolls to the side, avoiding a branch crushing his head.

The boy manages to push himself up while Granger yelps as she ducks for a swinging branch that nearly takes her head off, and points to the rather furious seeming tree, roaring, " _IMMOBULUS_!"

A bright blue spark shoots out the tip and hits the trunk—it makes the entire tree glow a flash of blue as it freezes it instantly, the sudden silence deafening. The spell has an effect that is most likely very temporary, however; both Harry and Tom realise this, and dart to the gap between the roots before it wears off. Tom reaches it first, and slides down the earthly slope of the narrow hole to the bottom of a very low tunnel, Harry following right behind. Granger realises too late what has happened, remaining at the edge of the tree's reach, and after about three seconds of frozen branches the Willow starts swinging again and she cannot follow.

"Harry!" she yells while Harry is making an embarrassed apology for nearly knocking Tom over with his haphazard landing, Tom barely managing to keep both of them standing by having caught the boy by his arms.

"Get help from the castle!" a red-faced Harry calls to the outside, awkwardly shuffling out of Tom's personal space, who is rather annoyed at having dirtied his robes and shoes. After brushing off clots of earth, he turns his attention to the tunnel in front of them instead. It is rather narrow, and even with Harry's wand illuminating it, it looks to be quite long as well, not heading towards Hogwarts, but rather towards Hogsmeade.

"Peculiar," he muses. "I wonder what this was built for?"

"We have to move!" Harry hisses, neither sharing Tom's curiosity and not keen on lingering either. "Ron is—"

"Yes, of course, let's move," Tom replies with a sigh. He couldn't care less about Weasley's well being, and is a lot more interested in this tunnel and where it ends. It could be a perfect way to sneak into the castle should he need to do so later on.

Harry is nearly running and Tom is a bit chagrin of having to keep a similar pace. The tunnel is quite lengthy, but seems to run in a mostly straight line, and as they go further it widens comfortably. Eventually, though, the tunnel begins to rise and narrow again until they find themselves in front of a small opening that indicates the end of the tunnel, and their destination.

It leads to a room, a very disordered, dusty room. Paper is peeling from the walls, there are stains all over the floor, and every piece of furniture is broken as though somebody smashed it. The windows are all boarded up.

Tom glances at Harry, who looks rather tense, but nods nonetheless.

He pulls himself out of the hole first, and after patting all the dust and dirt off his clothes with an irritated look, he surveys his surroundings. The room is deserted, but a door to their right stands open, leading to a shadowy hallway. His eyes briefly fall on a wooden chair near them as Harry gets on his feet. Large chunks have been torn out of it; one of the legs has been ripped off entirely.

"Most likely," Tom murmurs as he moves quietly towards the boarded windows and peeks through the small gaps to see a familiar landscape, "we're in the Shrieking Shack."

At that moment, there's a loud creaking of old wood overhead. Something moves upstairs. Both of them look up at the ceiling which looks like it could collapse at any second.

"Keep your wand ready," Tom hisses as he moves into the hall first. Going up the crumbling staircase is a bit of a problem and will most certainly give away their presence, so he instructs Harry to cast a silencing charm on it. Everything on the steps is covered in a thick layer of dust, except for the floor, where a wide shiny stripe has been made by something being dragged upstairs.

They reach the dark landing.

" _Nox_ ," Harry whispers, and the light at the end of his wand goes out. Only one door is open—obviously a trap. As they creep toward it, they hear movement as well as other noises from behind it; namely a low groan that sounds rather pained. They exchange a last look, a last nod.

Wand held tightly before him, Harry kicks the door wide open.

A bit theatrical, but oh well.

In the room itself resides a magnificent four-poster bed with dusty hangings, as well as what must've once been an elegant vanity, though its mirror is covered in dust like everything else in the Shack, and decorated with numerous cracks. There's also a large closet that has a drawer missing and another one pulled out and half-smashed. On the floor between the vanity and the closet right in the corner, clutching his leg which sticks out at a strange angle, is Weasley.

Harry dashes across to him while Tom has the sense to look around, where he spots someone lingering near the doorway. Harry is oblivious to it, tending to his friend instead.

"Ron, are you okay? Where's the dog?"

"Not a dog," Weasley moans, his teeth gritted with pain as his friend tries to pull him up. "Harry, it's a trap—"

"What—"

"He's the dog, he's an animagus!"

Weasley is staring over Harry's shoulder, at what Tom has been looking at all along. Harry wheels around. With a snap, the man in the shadows closes the door behind them.

A mass of filthy, matted hair hangs to his elbows, and if eyes hadn't been shining out of the deep, dark sockets, he might have been a corpse. The waxy skin is stretched so tightly over the bones of his face that it looks like a skull, his yellow teeth bared in a grin, and his clothes are little more than rags covering his wiry frame.

It's none other than Sirius Black.

" _Expelliarmus_!" he croaks, pointing Weasley's wand at them in a move surprisingly quick for someone that looks worse than an inferi.

Harry's wand shoots out of his hand, high in the air, and Black catches it. He takes a step closer, eyes fixated on Harry.

Tom thinks it odd that Black used such a basic and harmless spell on his supposed target. He isn't very concerned—at any point, should he feel like it, he can simply pluck Harry's wand out of Black's hand and kill him instantly, but for now, he is curious as to what the madman has planned.

"I thought you'd come and help your friend," he says hoarsely. His voice sounds as though he has long since lost the habit of using it. "Your father would have done the same for me. Brave of you, not to run for a teacher. I'm grateful... it will make everything much easier..."

"You-you knew my father?" Harry looks paler than usual, the colour slowly draining out of his face—though not as pale as Weasley who looks absolutely horrified, and in spite of it, does something  _incredibly_  stupid.

"If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill me too!" he says fiercely, though the effort of standing upright is taking its toll on him and he sways slightly as he speaks.

Something flickers in Black's shadowed eyes.

"Lie down," he says quietly to Ron. "You will damage that leg even more."

Tom thinks only a Gryffindor could do something that idiotic and pointless and still get some rather intriguing results. This man is not the mass-murdering insane person Tom had been expecting; there is something very odd going on. Why would Sirius Black grab the wrong person? Harry was standing right next to Weasley, and it doesn't make sense to take his friend hostage when you can simply take out your target instead.

"Did you hear me?" Weasley says weakly, though he's clinging painfully to Harry to stay upright. "You'll have to kill both of us!"

"There'll be only one murder here tonight," Black replies, his grin widening, but when he says that, he glances not at Harry, or even at Weasley, but at the rat that's been quivering in Weasley's pocket.

Then it occurs to him.

' _An animagus...'_

"Harry," Tom whispers very calmly, never taking his eyes off the rat. "Ask him what he wants."

Weasley is bewildered at hearing his voice, but that will be dealt with later. Harry looks at him from the corners of his eyes as if he's lost his mind.

"Do as I say."

The cool tone of command is enough to persuade the boy, who knows better than to disregard what Tom tells him. Harry, blood trickling down the side of his face, looks to Black and with reluctance dripping off his words, asks, "What do you want?"

Black points directly to Scabbers. "That-that's all I want—"

"Why? What do you want from Scabbers? He's just an ordinary rat!" Weasley cries, cupping the rat protectively with one hand.

"That's not a rat—that's an animagus," Black croaks, his eyes glinting madly, "by the name of Peter Pettigrew."

Framed. Black was framed. What reason would he have to lie, and such a preposterous lie at that? Now it also makes sense why Black was standing over Weasley's bed the night he broke into Gryffindor Tower. He was after the rat all along. He was after Pettigrew.

"You're mental!"

"Pettigrew is supposed to be dead," Harry states, looking from the rat back to Black, seeming uncertain, and glances once to Tom, who shakes his head. "What proof do you have that he's the rat?" If nothing else, at least Harry is keeping his composure.

"I'll show you! Give him to me and I'll show you!"

Harry is in thought about it, the tension nearly making his muscles shake. Tom already knows what his own answer would be in this situation, and is interested in seeing what route Harry will choose—and if their lessons together have had an effect on the boy's thinking at all. It's silly, and he shouldn't care whether they did have an effect or not, but it never hurts to see the fruits of one's labour.

When Harry then finally but hesitantly turns to Weasley (to Tom's satisfaction), the rat-owner screams bloody murder. "I'M NOT GIVING HIM SCABBERS!"

"Ron, maybe-maybe he's…  _why would he make up such a stupid lie_?!" Harry bellows when Weasley pushes him away and ends up nearly falling down on the floor, saved only by Harry pulling him upright again. "Just  _think_  for a second, Ron!"

"He's insane, Harry! He spent twelve bloody years in Azkaban, he's not right in the head! You can't trust him!"

"If we just give him the rat—"

"THEN HE'LL KILL IT!"

Tom reaches over, catches the rat's tail poking out of Weasley's pocket, and throws him down onto the ground in front of Black's feet. There is only a split-second of complete silence when multiple things happen at once; Black fires off a spell that very briefly engulfs the room in a blue-white colour, Weasley screams and lunges in an attempt to protect the rat, Harry tries to pull Weasley back, and the door is blasted off its hinges, revealing several people standing in the hallway.

There's another blinding flash of light and then—

It's like watching a sped-up film of a growing tree. A head shoots upward from the ground, limbs are sprouting, fur is disappearing as if it had never been, and a moment later, a man is standing where Scabbers had been, cringing and wringing his hands. At the same time, Black is disarmed by a spell and Harry and Weasley's wands end up in the hand of none other than Albus Dumbledore—Tom tenses instantly, and while he knows the man can't see him, he could still hear him, pick up traces of his presence if the prints of footsteps on the floorboards are examined close enough.

"Merlin's beard," a voice from the hallway comes from behind the Headmaster, and Lupin, standing right behind Dumbledore steps forward into the room, wand raised and staring at the small man. "Peter?"

Tom does not like how cramped the room has gotten. There is Dumbledore, who stands in front of the doorway and looks from Pettigrew to Black, understanding dawning in a glint in the eyes behind the glasses. There is Snape, who instantly moves forward and puts the tip of his wand to Black's throat. There is McGonagall, who moves to the two boys standing backed in a corner and instructs Harry to get Weasley seated so she can take a look at his leg. And there's Pettigrew, clinging to Lupin's robes and pleading for his life.

Needless to say, it is all somewhat chaotic. Tom doesn't care to stick around and hear the whole story behind all this nonsense. The longer he remains, the more paranoid he becomes of being discovered—if anyone could, it is Dumbledore, and he already does not like the glances the Headmaster shoots specifically in his direction while Black talks to Lupin and they sort out the whole ordeal, Pettigrew put under a silencing charm by Snape.

Taking a last look at Harry, who is glued to the story being told, Tom manages to manoeuvre around McGonagall and Pettigrew, and while holding his breath, makes it around Dumbledore quietly. He is reluctant to walk any further as he knows he will cause some creaking on the old floorboards, but it is better to risk that than to wait around in the lion's den.

He is far too proud to admit it, even to himself, but if he were to make a list of his fears, 'Dumbledore' would be second only to 'Death'.

* * *

The wait is excruciating. While it is fortunate that Tom does not have to be near the diary any more to remain manifested, being alone in the dorms and waiting for Harry's return so he can finish this, finish it as soon as possible and leave from this damned castle to finally set out on his journey, fulfil his purpose—it's driving him up the wall.

Of course when Harry  _does_ arrive in the middle of the night after what seems to have been quite the evening, dealing with the revelation of Black's innocence and all the  _delightful_ details Tom knows he'll find out tomorrow, he is too tired to have any sort of actual conversation. It goes along the lines of, "Hi Tom" — "I'll tell you everything in the morning" — "'Nigh' Tom" — before he practically passes out on the bed, not even having taken off his shoes.

Within seconds, Harry has sunken into complete sleep and Tom stands over him as if a ghost, observing the serene expression that has relaxed his facial features. This is the moment to do it. No more waiting. No more hiding. Finally,  _finally_ , freedom is near.

He can taste the liberty on his tongue as he silently sits down on the edge of the bed, looking down on this child he spent a year with, the child with the almost frightening potential. They call him  _The Boy Who Lived_ , they label him their saviour, the only one capable of defeating the Dark Lord. So why is it so easy for Tom to slide his hand onto the centre of his chest, feeling it rise and fall with his breaths, the cadences regular and quiet? Why is it so easy for him to set the boy's death in motion, the death of the supposed hero? It's almost  _too_  easy, killing him.

Sensing their bond to start the last phase is child's play—all he has to do is pluck on its strings and make it sing. The core, the source of energy he hooked into last summer, is pulled. The boy sleeping on the bed stirs, but doesn't wake.

After this, he'll never wake.

Tom reels it in, feels it almost burning through his veins, but the more he consumes the more he feels something is wrong. Harry's breathing starts becoming laboured, and he's starting to sweat, as if having a nightmare.

He is not dying. Not at all. He looks to be more and more  _alive_  the more Tom pulls.

How is this possible when he is certain that he's sucking the essence of the boy's life right out of his chest? He should be losing colour, his pulse should be weakening, his breathing should be growing quieter and softer and more shallow, until it finally stops, and yet the complete opposite is happening. Harry is even starting to groan.

How, how,  _how_ —

Then, there are flashes. Not of images, but knowledge. Memories and feelings and thoughts, fitting and clicking as if they were pieces of a puzzle he was missing without knowing it—and they are  _his_. Most of it, it's him, Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle, it belongs to him. Some of it is Harry, but a shocking majority of it is  _him_. Even the very last drop that is sucked out with a force that has Harry shaking and awakening in shock as if from a nightmare, sweating and disoriented, is originally his. It—whatever it is, whatever Tom has been draining from for all these months—has always belonged to him.

"Tom?" Harry whispers frantically, blinking and rubbing his eyes. "Tom, what just—what happened?"

Tom remains seated on the edge of the bed like a statue, heart thumping violently against his ribs as if attempting to break them, and stares down at his hand that is still burning. It feels as if someone sewed an open wound shut without anaesthetic; it's the forceful reattachment of a lost piece. His mind is frantic, his thoughts racing so fast he nearly loses himself in their chaos, watching Harry's lips form words but not hearing any of it.

He looks at the boy with the scar, the Parselmouth, who shared a bond with him from the very beginning, the child that is held up by society to be Lord Voldemort's only worthy challenger even by Dumbledore himself.

The only threat.

The Killing Curse. Murder. A condition to creating—

When Lily Potter threw herself in front of her child—

The ward around Harry that then—

When the curse rebounded—

His hands are shaking.

Harry Potter—his Horcrux.


	8. Chapter 8

Harry doesn't know what is happening anymore.

Within the span of a single day he has been drowned in a weight of revelations he never anticipated, and the consequences echo throughout the rest of the week, allowing him very little sleep.

Sirius Black, his father's best friend, assumed to be the Potters' Secret Keeper when they hid under the Fidelius Charm, assumed to have betrayed them, assumed to have murdered Peter Pettigrew and several muggles—innocent. All along. An innocent man, cast away into Azkaban  _without a trial_ , enduring the torment of dementors  _for twelve years_. He could've had a godfather, he could've had a parent, he could've been happy with his childhood had the Ministry, had society, not utterly failed in its duty to serve justice.

His stomach churns when he thinks about it, when he remembers Black's emaciated and miserable form that seemed so menacing and so vile when he'd first seen it, but now makes his heart ache and leaves the taste of nausea in the back of his throat.

At one time, perhaps, this revelation would've only inspired happiness, and he  _is_ happy that Black, with Pettigrew's Veritaserum-induced confession, will get his official trial and be cleared of all charges, but he is no longer quite the naive child he used to be. Exposed to these failures of morality now, courtesy of Tom, it is impossible to unsee the ugly even amidst the beauty. There is no unadulterated elation; there are only equal amounts of disappointment, anger and joy.

He can barely recall the night of event when he thinks back on it. He remembers little things, like the Headmaster's hand on his shoulder as he guided him out of the Shack. The sporadic clenching of Snape's jaw during Black's explanation. The wrinkles on Lupin's face that seemed to have instantly deepened within those few hours. The shine on McGonagall's shoes as they stepped outside.

Tom's absence.

Granted, it hadn't been a little thing by itself, but compared to what was going on at the time it slipped Harry's attention completely. It wasn't until later that night, when Harry was woken in a most awful manner—his chest burning in a shock of pain, his scar feeling as if it were being cut open by a knife, his throat constricting by treacherous muscle—that Tom was added to the list of things that had collapsed on him in in the past several hours. Quite literally, in Tom's case.

Not only does Harry have the new knowledge of Black's innocence (his  _godfather's_ innocence—he has a  _godfather_!) to process, something is wrong with Tom and he has no idea how to help. All he told Harry is that he decided to finalise the spell that had been feeding him power ever since they performed the small rite, and that it had failed in a near-catastrophic manner.

It has been a week and Tom hasn't come out of the diary ever since that night. Harry remembers him looking shaken in a way he'd never thought was even possible; Tom always keeps his composure, he always knows what to do, and he always has answers for practically any question Harry can think of. To see him nearly shell-shocked was deeply unsettling, and Harry wants to help, but he doesn't know how or where to start. Tom is extremely reluctant to let him offer his assistance in the first place. Whenever he asks, he's met with instant rejection that sometimes is almost icy in its finality, not that it will stop Harry from asking every other day.

Tom was there for him through the whole ordeal with the Dursleys and always had time to listen to Harry no matter how trivial his woes were. That's not even taking into account all the things he's taught him—Harry finally realises, now that Tom is the one who needs help (although he is too proud to admit it), that he owes him far more than what he's been giving him. There is a sense of guilt and responsibility mixed with the concern; he feels that he's failed his friend in some way.

As for Tom's current condition, from what little information he gives away it almost sounds as if he's sick. The concept is hard for Harry to wrap his mind around; how can a  _memory_ suffer from illness?

" _It needs time to heal,"_ Tom wrote to him one morning, never clarifying what 'it' is. Perhaps it's more like a wound than an actual illness? But what could've caused the wound? Was it his fault? Tom assured him that it wasn't, but Harry stopped taking Tom's word on everything. While their bond is very faint now, Harry can still sense things from the diary, and the ripples of intense pain and frustration contradict every  _"I'm fine"_ Tom has said, and he's said at least seven of those in the past three days alone.

When Harry asked yesterday in particular if there was anything he could do (for what has to be the thirtieth time in a row), Tom turned him down in clipped tones and advised him to focus on matters with Black instead.

Speaking of which, the whole ordeal is being kept top secret by the Ministry for the moment, meaning that Harry is thankfully not being bombarded by questions and attention from his peers yet though it's only a matter of time. Black himself has been hospitalised in St. Mungo's, and considering his dreadful condition he won't be released for a month at the minimum.

Harry didn't have any time to talk to him as Dumbledore instructed McGonagall to take him and Ron straight back to the castle during the eve of incident, and that was the first and last time he saw Black. He is still planning on writing to him eventually, though he has no idea what to say. They are strangers, after all, and Harry isn't certain how… well, how much of his sanity Black has left.

Ron seems to be taking everything much better than Harry, considering his pet rat turned out to be a middle-aged man who indirectly murdered his best friend's parents, but then again, he was always more attached to "Scabbers" out of principle and not because he had any sort of emotional attachment.

"I let him sleep in my bed," Ron said with a horrified look when they got to the infirmary after the whole ordeal. "He saw me  _naked_!"

Harry sympathises, but his shock has been a bit more severe, all things considered—and the surprises haven't ended yet.

Since the exams have been finished, there are very few classes left for them to attend. The ones that continue, the core classes, mostly prepare them for next year. Between worrying about Black and worrying about Tom, Harry eventually notices that DADA has suddenly dropped off his schedule on the notice board in the common room; he decides to pay Professor Lupin a visit, exactly a week after Pettigrew's arrest.

When he gets to the classroom on the third floor, aside from the tables and chairs, it has been completely emptied of Lupin's possessions. The man himself sits at his desk, arranging papers and stuffing some of them in his suitcase, looking more worn out than ever. The bags underneath his eyes have become more prominent, and Harry swears he has more grey hair now than he did at the start of the year.

"Professor?" Harry walks up to his desk, finally catching Lupin's attention, who smiles faintly at the sight of him. There's something glum about it.

"Harry." He looks tired. "Come to give your old teacher a farewell visit?"

"Farewell visit?" Harry looks around the room once more, the emptiness of it finally sinking in. "Are you-are you  _leaving_?"

"Yes, unfortunately I won't be returning next year," Lupin says with a weary sigh, picking up where he left off and tucking an old dossier into his bag. "It's for health reasons, mostly, but…."

"But what?" Harry frowns, and while he understands where the health-concern might have come from, he isn't thrilled to know of Lupin's resignation. "Sir, you're the best teacher we've had for this subject, if there's any way I can convince you to—"

"It's also because of Sirius," Lupin cuts him off gently, and he feels the words die on his tongue. "I visited him in St. Mungo's last night. Physically he's making a remarkable recovery, but psychologically, he needs more time. The Headmaster thought it would help him if he had a familiar face around; he was in Azkaban for twelve years, it's a miracle he's coherent at all."

Harry doesn't know what to say. He suddenly feels a very weighty sensation of guilt for not having written that letter yet, but every time he sits down to do it he blanks. "How is he?"

"He has frequent nightmares," Lupin answers gravely. "And sometimes, I think he forgets where he is. Loses his sense of time, so to speak, but it doesn't happen all that often. For the most part, he's doing quite alright, considering…" He doesn't finish that sentence, a dark look passing on his features that makes him look a decade older, before he changes the topic to something more lighthearted. "He asked about you."

"Oh." Harry looks away, feeling somewhat embarrassed. He hadn't expected Black to show interest—sure, legally he was Harry's godfather, but after all those years he thought Black would care more about his newly found freedom than some old obligation.

"We both agree that you're almost an exact replica of your father. He watched you play Quidditch a few times while he roamed about the school grounds, as well. You left quite an impression on him."

The dog. Harry remembers it—lightning flashing, and the silhouette of a large dog at the top row of the stands. He can't believe Sirius suffered through that horrible weather just to watch him play. Tentatively, he asks, or  _tries_ to ask, "Would he… would it be okay if…"

"Do you want to visit him?" Lupin offers helpfully, perhaps sensing Harry's discomfort. "I'll be going to St. Mungo's quite frequently during summer vacation. I could take you with me, if you'd like."

Harry smiles, relieved as he doesn't have to put things into words. He's never been good with that. "Yeah, I'd like that." Talking to Sirius in person would be much easier than writing him something, anyway. He parts his lips to ask his now former teacher another thing, but thinks better of it at the last second and instead says he has to get to the Library, having arranged to meet up with Hermione there in the morning.

He's been pushing his luck, anyway. Even if Sirius is technically his legal guardian now, Harry doesn't expect him to want to take care of some kid he doesn't even know. It's probably best if he spares no further thought and energy into hoping.

Before Harry leaves for the Library, Lupin advises him (rather astutely) that if Harry was planning on sending him a letter, he best do it soon and resist the urge to procrastinate. It won't take an owl longer than two days' worth of journey to get to St. Mungo's, so he'll be guaranteed to have a frequent correspondence with Sirius before he can visit. It might make things significantly less awkward.

That's one problem solved, then, even though he still isn't happy to hear that Lupin won't be returning next year. Who knows what kind of mental person or incompetent fraud would be hired? Maybe a sadistic git like Snape? Or perhaps, god forbid, Snape  _himself_?

Harry heads to the Library after that little chat, having mixed feelings on the whole thing, and pondering what to put in his letter to Sirius. How was he even supposed to address him? Dear Mr. Black? That was too formal. But 'Dear Sirius' just sounded too  _awkward_. Harry didn't even have a proper conversation with the man aside from the whole 'I'm-going-to-murder-your-friend's-rat' thing, which wasn't the best precursor to an amicable relationship.

Hermione would know. He quickens his pace to the Library, nearly bumping into several students who were loitering in the corridors. Hermione would know how to write a good letter, and she would know how to handle Harry's  _other_ problem. Tom's condition.

He isn't planning on revealing everything to her, but just to prod her a bit for information. Tom never did mention what kind of spell or ritual or whatever it's called had created him. There has to be some name for putting your memory into an object, hasn't there?

When he gets to the Library which is nearly devoid of other students, he sees Hermione already perusing the bookshelves for something quick to read before the year is up. They have two weeks left, which makes Hermione's behaviour even more baffling to Harry as he can't imagine how you can read through any of the thick books she's partial to within fourteen days.

"Hiya, Hermione."

She turns away from a dusty shelf in the  _History_ Section, and smiles brightly as Harry approaches. "Hi, Harry—have you seen Ron around? He borrowed my Charms book but I haven't gotten it back yet."

Harry shrugs. "Last I saw him he was in the Great Hall, stuffing his face with cupcakes. What are you looking at?"

"Oh, nothing important," she replies idly, putting back a red hard-cover book with a broomstick engraved on it. "With the Quidditch World Cup Final being held this summer, I thought I should read up on some history."

Harry had completely forgotten about that, as well as Quidditch in general, in all honesty. "Right, do we know the finalists yet?" Hermione looks at him as if he's mad for not knowing, and maybe she has a point in that, considering him being a Seeker.

"No, there's still the semi-finals."

Before she can fill his head with a whole plethora of new information concerning the Quidditch World Cup Harry decides to change the subject, not all that interested in hearing about international tournaments at the moment. "Right. Anyway, er, I was hoping you could help me with something."

"Sure, what's it about?"

"Well, two things, actually. I need to write a letter." He pauses, taking in Hermione's concerned look. She seems to already know. "It's to Sirius, and I'm not sure how to go about it. I need some advice."

The two of them pick out an empty table to sit at near the windows in between two large book cases. The Library is pleasantly still, the many dust particles floating in the air being highlighted by golden sunlight, giving a tranquil atmosphere to the place.

"I suppose you're not sure how to address him?" Hermione guesses, continuing after receiving a nod. "It's hard for me to say, really. I haven't met him so I don't know how he… feels about you. He  _is_ your godfather, but would he consider…?"

"I don't know," Harry admits, arms crossed on the table. "I spoke to Lupin and he said Sirius asked about me. I-I think he's alright with me, anyway."

"I wouldn't make it formal, then. As long as you know what you want to tell him, write however you want to. I'm sure it'll get the message across either way." At Harry's silence, she reaches over and puts her hand on his wrist in a gesture of comfort, her eyes soft when they meet his. "Whatever you write, I'm sure he'll be pleased with it."

Feeling a bit less anxious with that reassurance, Harry relaxes slightly. "Thanks, 'mione." The amount of times he would've been screwed without her help—Ron as well, for that matter.

"Now, that's one thing taken care of. Was there something else? You did mention  _two_ things you needed my help with."

"Well, er…." Here is the tricky part. "It's more hypothetical than anything else. I read something about storing memories into objects—in the newspaper—which sounds pretty useful, but the, um, the article didn't mention how it worked, exactly."

Hermione hums thoughtfully. There's a bit of a sceptic look to her, which means Harry is already in hot water, but she also looks contemplative. After a few seconds of silence, she finally replies. "All I can think of is a Pensieve, but I don't think that's what you meant."

"No, not like a Pensieve," Harry confirms.

They discussed things like the Pensieve during Ancient Runes—the metal basin used to keep memories in storage is typically carved with dozens of symbols which they all had to identify during their exam as one of the questions.

Harry fared surprisingly well with that, or perhaps not so surprisingly, since he found it quite interesting how runes could enchant any object and how diverse said enchantments were. Aside from the Pensieve, you could even use runes to enchant your belongings into self-destruction or disappearing at the touch of anyone other than yourself.

"So just solid objects? I've never heard of that before. Are you sure you read it right?" Hermione questions with furrowed eyebrows, starting to grow suspicious.

"Yes, I'm sure. We should look around the Library, I'm sure it has to be written here  _somewhere,_ " Harry insists, and at the mention of a Library-search, Hermione instantly perks up.

"Alright then, follow me! I'm sure it's in the  _Mind-Related Magic_  Section."

They end up scouring the Section for almost an hour without finding anything of value. Most books that concern memories in particular are few and far in between, and mostly discuss things like the Pensieve, or otherwise memory-altering magic such as memory charms. Harry starts growing more frustrated, and he and Hermione almost give up looking until he notices a very old, very thin and quite small book wedged in between two larger ones, titled simply, ' _Memory & Mind: The Basics' _by Imelda Funks.

Harry doubts he'll find anything substantial in there, especially seeing how beaten up the simple, dark blue cover of the little book is, but he figures it's worth flipping through just in case. He soon finds that it seems to be an instruction manual more than anything else, but it provides him a very important hint.

In a paragraph going into the storage of memories, it reads:

" _If one were to make any such attempt, be advised that the extraction of the targeted memories must be executed with EXTREME CAUTION! Much like with soul magic, if you were to end up losing these memories, or worse yet, have them destroyed, retrieval is impossible and loss is permanent!"_

He is suddenly reminded of what Tom once said to him when they first met, and Harry asked him what he was.

" _I am part of a person, created by magic."_

Perhaps not entirely just a memory. Perhaps really, a part of someone's soul? But is that even possible? Harry doesn't really know how you would just rip a piece of your soul out and stuff it in a notebook, but it makes more sense than Tom being just a memory, now he considers it. Would a memory have so much free will, a mind of its own? A consciousness?

"Harry? Did you find something?" Hermione inquires while balancing a stack of books in one hand as she puts them back on the shelf one by one.

Harry puts the manual away and quickly walks over to help. "Sort of. I think we might have been looking in the wrong section." he replies, taking a few books off her and putting them back without looking, which earns him a glare from Hermione who hands him the rest of the books while she neatly rearranges the ones he put away in alphabetical order.

"What do you mean?" she asks firmly, continuing her task until all the books are back in the case.

"It might not have been just a memory you put into an object, but your soul—part of your soul, anyhow. Is that possible?"

Hermione's brows arch, before they sink back down again in a little frown. "I'm not sure, but that sounds like dark magic, Harry. Your soul isn't meant to be toyed around with, let alone split into pieces!"

"Could we go look for it all the same?"

She sighs, seeming to relent at first. "That type of book could only be found in the Restricted Section, and I'm not sorry to say that I won't be going in there any time soon."

"That's fine," Harry says with a shrug, glancing over to Madam Pince, the overseer of the Library who seems to be much too busy perusing an edition of the  _Daily Prophet_  and glancing at a few students close to her to pay attention to them. He reaches down to his bag which he'd lowered down to the floor during their search, pulling out his Invisibility Cloak. "I'll go look for it myself."

"Harry, that's—" Hermione scowls at him, but she knows she won't be changing his mind. While she doesn't exactly mind use of the Restricted Section in general, it has to only be when  _needed_. As far as she knows, Harry is just doing this on a whim, and she disapproves of that heavily considering there are quite a number of dangerous books there. "Fine, go look for it then,  _on your own_. I'll be sitting here, reading my book," she huffs, returning to their table and picking up the Quidditch World Cup History book she'd been looking at earlier. "And be careful," she adds sternly as Harry quickly slips on his Cloak while hiding behind a book case.

Unfortunately, this search proves to be entirely fruitless. He found a number of books on soul magic, though most of it seems to pertain to Necromancy. It left him with the theory that Tom might have been the spirit of a dead person summoned into the diary, though that didn't fit with the fact that Tom is just  _part_ of a soul. No books on Necromancy discussed the possibility of splitting one's spirit.

When he returns out of the Restricted Section unnoticed, and relays his unproductive research to Hermione, she sinks into thought once again.

"Perhaps the subject was considered too dangerous for Hogwarts students," she surmises eventually. "In which case, you had better just give up on it, Harry. Nothing good can come out of it."

Harry admits defeat at this, and spends the rest of the afternoon allowing Hermione to fill his head with Quidditch facts and trivia.

He supposes he'll just ask Tom directly when he gets the chance.

* * *

The healing process is excruciating.

Tom's awareness of time, of  _anything_ , really, has diminished; his entire being aches, like nerves underneath skin having been set on fire. Rational thought and rumination is difficult, but it is also his only distraction from the impossible agony.

In theory, the creation of a Horcrux can only be reconciled by experiencing a profound sense of remorse and repentance—neither of which Tom has felt to prompt this healing process in the first place, but his situation is unique. Uncharted territory.

No one ever attempted the creation of multiple Horcruxes, so he couldn't have foreseen this turn of events when he accidentally absorbed  _his own Horcrux_. Him being the first Horcrux his original created left him with a sense of self and magic that he suspects his other Horcruxes don't have. His distinct characteristic of being able to siphon someone's life force to himself has unexpectedly turned out to be another way to reconcile a Horcrux.

While it is quite the discovery, there are numerous questions he needs answers for.

Harry Potter was his Horcrux, and while the creation was unintended (though that has been rectified now, which is the only good thing about this entire situation, Tom decides), why was his original out to murder an _infant_  in the first place?

It is a question he should've asked sooner, but he always supposed that his original had attempted to kill Harry as an afterthought—eliminating a future threat, so to speak, after taking out the actual threats, James and Lily Potter. From the memories he received from this Horcrux, on that Halloween night when Lord Voldemort walked up the small garden path leading up to the Potters' front door, he arrived with his  _main target_  being Harry. A small child barely a year old.

Why? Tom can pluck out some things about a prophecy or whatnot amidst the memories, but it sounds so utterly insane that he can hardly believe it happened the way it did. Divination and most of its properties are complete rubbish—prophecies have no power on its subjects whatsoever as long as you don't believe in them, and Tom certainly doesn't. No sane man can lend merit to the ramblings of a possibly possessed person, and there are numerous accounts over the ages of prophecies being conquered, prevented and otherwise dispelled by the mere factor of chance or otherwise disbelief.

While Tom considers himself unaffected by such things as society-dictated morals, the murder of a child over some vague foretelling that depended entirely on choice sounds like the doing of a madman, a paranoid mental patient belonging in St. Mungo's. It sounds pathetic. It sounds revolting.

It sounds wrong.

This is something else that has been worrying, to say the least. During this healing process, Tom has noticed a subtle change within him he isn't sure is beneficial. Whenever he revisits that memory that shows the murder of the Potters, when he watches Lily Potter plead and beg for her child's life, witnesses her die in front of her son, a small child that watches with big green eyes as his mother collapses, his initial reaction to it is different than what it is  _usually_.

Maybe it is circumstance and context, but it doesn't feel right, it doesn't feel what he's used to. The sense of pity, of something weighty and heavy and a sort of lingering twinge in his chest, is something new. It doesn't belong to him, he knows this with certainty. When he saw Myrtle's corpse being carried away by Ministry officials, he felt detached, as he had considered it his duty. After murdering Tom Riddle Sr. and his parents, he felt a lingering disgust and scorn, as he had considered it his retribution.

Why does he feel something so different  _now_? Even if the attempted murder on Harry was ridiculous, the elimination of the Potter couple had been entirely just; they were skilled Aurors, and a serious threat to the Dark Lord. Yet when he watches it, replays the scene over and over, that troublesome sensation of wrongness remains.

It has to be the influence of the Harry-Horcrux.

As far as Tom knows, no one has ever made another person their Horcrux, so this is pure speculation on his part, but it seems obvious that housing a part of your soul into someone would have consequences—both for the person in question, as well as the Horcrux. As much as the Horcrux has affected Harry, it seems Harry has affected the Horcrux as well, and now with Tom having absorbed it, he is suffering through the forceful changes and consequences.

It is not only an agony in the more physical sense of the word, but on a psychological level as well. He knows better than to resist it (that would mean tearing himself apart) but that does not mean he's comfortable with it; he has no choice but to let it happen.

As far as interacting with Harry goes, he has kept it at a minimum, and plans on keeping it at a minimum until the pain subsides and he is in a state where he can plan his next move, considering his original scheme failed.

Unfortunately, Harry has other thoughts.

Tom hasn't a clue  _what_ the boy has been busy with that particular afternoon, but when he returns in the evening he practically interrogates the suffering Horcrux on his origins.

" _You never told me about how you were created. Was it Necromancy, or something like that?"_

At least Harry was being creative about it.  _"No. It was through old magic that only very few people know of, and even fewer practice."_

" _What's it called?"_

Tom has no interest in this right now. The aching he's sitting through has shortened his patience significantly, and he isn't as amiable or charming as he usually is.  _"You needn't concern yourself with it, Harry. It is dangerous in the hands of the inexperienced."_

There is a slight pause, followed by a very perceptive,  _"You're not_ just  _a memory, are you?"_

Blast it. His own teachings have come back to bite him.

" _Does it matter what I am?"_ he responds tersely.  _"There's nothing you can do about my condition, I've already told you this several times before. It will heal on its own."_

" _You keep saying that, but you won't even come out of the diary anymore. That's how bad it is, isn't it?"_

" _Harry, let it go."_

" _Why did you create this diary in the first place? I asked Hermione and she said it was a dangerous sort of magic—I couldn't even find anything about it in the Restricted Section. Why—"_

" _ **Enough**_ _."_ His agitation bristles off the diary in palpable waves, and he can sense Harry's shock to the sudden retort which gives him a little satisfaction, but not enough to pacify him. He supposes this was inevitable. Harry has always been quite curious, and he would've asked these questions eventually. Tom teaching him to value his curiosity and think critically merely made it to be sooner, rather than later.

" _I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you,"_ Harry pens down carefully, his remorse obvious.  _"I've just been worried, and I wanted to help."_

His natural reaction is to scoff at it, but he has long grown used to Harry's sentimentality, and his ever-present need to aid his friends in any way he can. It is one of his innate characteristics, and while it has been a cause for irritation on numerous occasions, Tom muses that Harry simply wouldn't be the same without those qualities, and forgives him for the trespass.

" _I understand, but trust me when I say there is nothing to be done. We must simply wait."_ He's starting to tire of the conversation, regardless.  _"I must rest now, Harry. Try to enjoy your last weeks at Hogwarts."_

The diary shuts itself closed, and isn't opened again for the next two weeks.


	9. Chapter 9

_Dear Sirius,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I should've written to you sooner but I didn't really know what to say. Everything's been pretty hectic for the past few days. I can't imagine how you're feeling._

_I spoke to Professor Lupin (I should call him Remus now, though, since he resigned) and he offered to take me with him to St. Mungo's during the summer so I could visit, if that's alright with you._

_It's funny, just a few months ago I hated your guts, and that's without even knowing the rumours about the thing with my parents. You know you almost got Quidditch cancelled, right? And I ran into dementors a few times, too. Nasty things, but at least I got to learn how to cast a Patronus. Also, that night you scared the lights out of Ron, we ended up sleeping in the Great Hall. It was really uncomfortable. Looking back on it, I'm actually relieved you never managed to kill Pettigrew. If you had, you'd never be able to prove your innocence._

_Anyway, I heard from Remus that your recovery is going well. I hope you'll be able to leave St. Mungo's soon. The year's ending in two weeks so that's when I'll be able to come see you. I heard Pettigrew's trial will only be held once you're discharged and healthy enough to give your testimony. Why did they never give you your trial, anyway?_

_Aside from having to process this whole thing, everything's going well on my end for the most part. I can't wait till summer starts and I can leave all this behind me._

_I hope to hear from you soon._

_Take care,_

_Harry_

* * *

It's so quiet. The sounds of his memories are too poor an imitation to keep him appeased when he can see the foundation of empires he once built inside his mind turning into pillars of salt. There's an ache that beats in sync with his heart. Temples of self-worship, of promise, of ambition, reduced to rubble by the gentlest whispers from a voice he knows almost as well as his own, a voice he loathes.

' _Why, Tom? Why go this far?'_

It drives him to the edges of sanity, making him tip-toe the line like an acrobat in a circus performance—that's what his thoughts have turned into. It's a carnival of madness playing out inside his head. Seeds of doubt that are scattered now around his garden. His memories contort into nightmares, as he stares at a reflection of himself opening the door of Riddle House.

' _What are you doing it for?'_

He watches him slip inside, and only seconds later, a faded colour of green flashes through the windows, the sound of lifeless bodies hitting the floorboards as sharp as a guillotine. For the first time, he wonders why he did it.

' _When will you be sated?'_

Tearing through the obstacles in front of him, he never turned to look what he left behind him. Never cared to. The whispers know this. They know of the inevitable monster that lurks at the top of this mountain of corpses he's built and is climbing. What's at the top? He's been so busy climbing he never stopped to ask himself what's at the top.

' _When will it end?'_

He hasn't looked at his newly acquired memories yet. The only one he glimpsed at is the one of Godric's Hollow, of the Potters' murder. He looks at that one often, watches himself with the intensity of a hawk—not eyeing prey, but staring at a threat so much greater than himself. That cold, high laughter, is that his? That agonised scream when it all falls apart, is that him? Is that Tom Riddle?

' _What is left?'_

No, not Tom Riddle. That is a name he always was so eager to cast aside, trade in for the title of Lord Voldemort; the persona, the  _fantasy_ he sacrificed everything to become, not caring to know the consequences. He did become it, in the end. He made the Horcruxes, attained immortality, ruled as the greatest dark wizard in history, so why can't he look at the victories he will no doubt find in these new memories? Why can he not open that door? Why does his hand shake and his skin crawl every time he wraps his fingers around the doorknob?

' _Is this what you wanted?'_

Maybe it's because, unlike Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle isn't blinded by greed and apathetic about the demons he creates, overlooking the self-mutilation, oblivious of the pointlessness of it all.

Tom Riddle knows very well that something terrible awaits him behind that door.

' _Open it.'_

Something that will devour him and spit him out into pieces, as it did with his original.

' _Open the door, Tom. Look at what you will become, what you_ have  _become.'_

He doesn't want to see it. He wants to imagine a golden throne, endless glory, the downfall of death. He wants the fantasy to live on. He does not want to face the reality in those memories.

' _You should've known, my dear boy, that nothing comes without a price.'_

The voice is a figment of his own psyche, he knows, one that has infected and twisted and turned his conscience into something else. An inner ego that now suddenly cares once more to save his soul, or whatever is left of it. He hasn't heard it speak to him like this since that rainy day in the orphanage when his wardrobe burned with his sins—hasn't heard such a tender pity in years.

_'You should've known.'_

The door rattles. The monster knocks on wood oh so politely.

"Why don't you let me in, Tom?" it says softly, and he can hear the smile in its voice. "I'll show you all that we've accomplished, all that we've conquered. Isn't that what we always wanted?"

' _I think there's something trying to get out, Tom.'_

Shut up. I won't fall for it.

"Come now, don't be shy."

' _Open the door.'_

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

"Let me in, Tom."

' _Open the door, Tom.'_

SHUT UP, YOU SENILE OLD MAN,  _SHUT UP_.

"Tom," the monster hisses now, starting to grow impatient. "Let me in  _this_   _instant_."

It's going to kill him, tear its claws into him, rip him to pieces and reassemble him from the base up. He'll be as good as dead.

' _You're strong enough,'_ whispers another voice, and he sees green eyes flash with admiration, with the sort of trust even he cannot question.  _'You can do it. You can overcome it. Open the door.'_

"Let me in!" the monster starts screaming at him, banging on the wood with the ferocity of a starved animal. "Listen to  _me_ , you foolish boy! Listen to me and let me in!"

_'Open the door.'_

"LET ME IN!"

_'Open the door and face it.'_

"TOM!"

_'But don't you dare let it in.'_

" _LISTEN TO ME_!"

It is neither bravery nor valour that makes him act, but a desire to make the cacophony of voices cease. He has to do something to make it stop, has to confront it eventually, and it has come to the point where ignoring it will only make it fester and grow, digging its roots further in.

With no other choice left, his fingers clench around the doorknob, his wrist twists, and he tears it open.

* * *

_Dear Harry,_

_Please try to tolerate the messy handwriting. The medicine has made my hand a bit unsteady, and I'm impatient to get you this response as soon as possible._

_First, let me apologise, though I know nothing I can say now will ever be enough to make up for it. After your parents died, I admit, I wasn't thinking clearly. All I wanted at the time was to make Pettigrew pay. I gave you up and abandoned you when I should've fought to keep you with me. If I hadn't let my impulses get the better of me, you wouldn't have had to suffer through such a miserable childhood (if it helps any, I found out from Remus first, not from the giant Daily Prophet cover this morning—_ The Boy Who Endured: Harry Potter's Tragic Childhood _, one of the more ridiculous titles I've seen in a while). But, I know nothing I can say could set it right, so I won't ask for your forgiveness._

_To have you visit over the summer would be more than I deserve. Strapped to a hospital bed I've had some time to mull things over, and while my therapist is a complete shrew, she knows what she's talking about half the time. I'll be fit for release in about three weeks, and while I know this isn't a topic properly discussed through letters, I want to make up for my absence during the past twelve years. I've heard about the Minister's comments that they're looking into several options for your new home, and I can't say I like it. Once I've been discharged, I'm planning to reinstate my status as your legal guardian (as I'm sure the Ministry has buried that piece of paperwork by now), if you'll still have me._

_I'm glad you're doing well. Sorry about the Quidditch thing, I think I gave you quite the scare during your match against Slytherin, but I had to watch you play. I trust the broom I sent you has been treating you well? I wasn't able to see much of your other matches, being constantly on the run and all. Thank your friend, Hermione Granger, for me as well. Her cat was a great help during the past few months. And give my apologies to your other friend, Ron Weasley, was it? I never meant for him to see me, but I was a bit delirious at the time._

_As far as the trial goes, everything is being kept very hush-hush by the Ministry so far, though I have no doubt it's all going to leak somewhere this week. The Ministry has always been incompetent when it comes to keeping secrets, or holding a fair trial, for that matter._

_At the time Dumbledore tried to persuade the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (Bartemius Crouch Sr.) to at least interrogate me. Crouch didn't listen, didn't even let me take Veritaserum. He thought I'd be able to resist it somehow and lie anyway, convinced I was some sort of high-ranking Death Eater who'd been trying to avenge Voldemort. Then again, all the evidence was pretty incriminating at the time and people had gotten paranoid thanks to the First Wizarding War._

_It's all in the past now, though. I'm a free man again and this time I'll make sure to set things right._

_I'm looking forward to your visits._

_Cheers,_

_Sirius._

* * *

There's a sort of throbbing sensation in his wounds. It doesn't ache, but it feels unpleasant. There are fresh stitches on his skin. A needle tugging a string through his flesh, slowly sealing it all back up. Now there are only scars.

The monster in the wardrobe is gone.

For a while, it was like the splitting of atoms inside his veins. Small universes of perceived realities ripped apart and formed into something new, vestiges of supposed truths shattered in the process, war cracking his bones, stars blurring and suns bleeding. What remains as the numbness settles mercifully on his worn nerves, is something even beyond  _his_ comprehension.

Perhaps, the accurate phrasing is that he feels reborn.

This is the end of it all. The agony he'd felt before, in the very beginning of this healing process, is nothing compared to the psychological torment he barely clawed his way out of. The Horcrux that resided within Harry brought with it a part of the boy, a small sliver of influence, like a souvenir. Once Tom successfully absorbed that, all that remained were the gruesome horrors of Lord Voldemort's past reign.

It tried to fight him for dominance. Devour him, in a sort of cannibalistic frenzy. Their personalities were different, after all—one had to submit to the other.

Tom pulled through it. He doesn't know how, or maybe doesn't want to admit that he knows how. In the face of that monstrosity, confronted with memories that inspire nothing but disgust (senseless massacres and torture, reckless acts fuelled by nothing but emotion, a madman that has lost sight of all his goals, pointless, pointless,  _pointless_ ) he almost lost himself to the temptation of power. Seductive whispers of absolute supremacy threatened to drag him down, and yet, he managed to overcome it—clinging subconsciously, perhaps, to the image of green eyes.

How much will this change, if anything at all? Lord Voldemort is lost. Tom is in a partial state of bewilderment, still adjusting to the changes that have set in within his psyche. What path should he take from this point on?

The answer isn't one he has to think on for very long; he must put himself back on the right track. Clearly Lord Voldemort has changed, the young man that once only acted on cold, hard logic and ruthless rationale turned into a travesty of wasted potential, ruled by his shortcomings. Tom must guide him back to where they began.

Ultimately, the long-term goal remains to join his original's side, though it will be difficult tracking him down with Tom still being bound to the diary. He briefly toys with the idea of using the Malfoy boy to get in contact with his father—a supposed Death Eater. Either way, it can wait. As frustrating as this latest setback has been, having sucked in the other Horcrux now he feels much closer to his full power than he did before.

He's been in the diary for fifty years, a few more months or even a few more years won't hurt him, but what will he do about Harry Potter?

Their bond, established through the blood rite, is still intact. If he so wishes, Tom can start sucking away at Harry's magic again, and this time he won't be accidentally pulling in his own Horcrux. Yes, certainly the more reasonable thing to do is to continue his original plan and make sure the boy dies this time?

No, no, that won't do. Harry's blood is a necessity, he tells himself. It must be used in the ritual to create a proper body for Lord Voldemort, otherwise his mother's protection won't allow Lord Voldemort to touch him, to harm him in the slightest. Tom has only been able to touch him so far because of their own small blood rite which Harry agreed to completely unwittingly at the time. He already has Harry's blood within him, but Lord Voldemort does not.

It has nothing to do with attachment on his part. These are not excuses or justifications. He's not avoiding the matter. It is a perfectly reasonable decision to spare the child for now—he forms no real threat to them as of yet.

He isn't reluctant to kill him. He wouldn't regret killing him. He can kill him whenever he so wishes.

" _So why don't you?"_

Tom grits his teeth and the diary shakes as Dumbledore's voice taunts him.

" _You've changed, Tom. You're no longer as callous as you'd like to believe. Eventually…"_

Don't you dare insinuate—

" _Far be it from me to insinuate anything; I was merely observing the obvious. It is my favourite pastime."_

Which ungodly pit of my subconscious did you crawl out of? I must be a masochist to inflict this kind of torture upon myself. You shouldn't have survived the healing process, you were meant to be a temporary symptom of delirium, something that should've gone away once I overcame the other Horcrux. How is this possible? It has to be some sort of auditory hallucination—

" _Interesting you should mention that. I, myself, think you have larger concerns than hearing imaginary voices in your head, however, such as the austerity of this place. It would do much better with some colour."_

Be quiet, I can't hear myself think with you blabbering in the background.

" _Oh, Tom,"_ A sigh.  _"You always did love the sound of your own voice too much for your own good."_

I don't remember Dumbledore being this snide.

" _Apparently that's what you imagine him, or me, to speak like, and so here we are. Back to the topic of your internal landscape; might I suggest some decoration to liven it up a bit? Floral patterns on the wall would be lovely, don't you think?"_

There must be some way to silence you. I cannot be expected to function when I have the voice of a unhinged elderly person drivelling on inside my head.

" _If you just listen to my advice, Tom, you will never have to hear from me again."_ Before he can even ask what the old man is on about, Dumbledore's lighthearted tone vanishes as he says gravely, _"Don't return to him."_ Tom starts seeing red.

You  _dare_ —

" _He cares nothing for you, he cares nothing for anything. He has been reduced to an empty shell, blind and unfeeling. You are nothing but a safety measure to him. Don't return to him, Tom."_

This is insanity, we are the same person, you are not allowed—you shouldn't be  _capable_ —of disagreement!

" _You've been lying to yourself, Tom. Lying to us. What did you think would happen?"_ The voice changes like the tuning of a radio, though he can't quite make out whose voice is speaking to him now.  _"You've created two realities inside your mind—one you know, but chose to forget."_ Shards of broken liquor bottles. Torn pages of his favourite book. Incessant chanting timed with skipping rope on the playground. He recognises the voice now; the sound of prophesied death. The rope coils around his neck and he suffocates.  _"The other is your sanctuary. A safe haven built on lies."_

You know nothing, you've seen nothing, you are just a hallucination, nothing you say has any meaning—

" _You've always been a coward, Tom."_

Green eyes flash in the dark.

"… _ **neither can live while the other survives…"**_

Before Tom can begin to process what has just happened, he feels the touch of another's hand on the leather cover of his book that snaps him out of madness. The diary has been trembling due to his inner mayhem and has now finally been noticed.

He is sure to keep it sealed shut, disinclined to allow anyone access to the pages when he's in such a vulnerable state—especially when it's Harry.

Focusing what energy he has on the outside, he feels a wave of discontentment radiating off the boy, buried under a heavy layer of previous excitement. Harry is in a good mood; not being able to figure out why comes as a great annoyance to Tom. He waits to see if Harry will try to open the diary, but for several seconds all he does is simply hold it with the tips of his fingers. The voices have stopped.

He feels the happy aura dissipate, making way for more glum, stormy thoughts, tinged by longing. Does Harry miss him? Miss talking to him, rather? It has been two weeks—that's unquestionably the longest time they've gone without speaking to each other.

"Still not better yet, Tom?"

Tom stays quiet. He could very easily snap the diary open and tell the boy that the worst is over with, but as the saying goes, absence makes the heart grow fonder. He can very well exploit this.

(Of course he ignores that this saying applies both ways.)

Harry's hands linger for a moment longer on the diary before it's put down somewhere and released. The leather feels cold, and the space within the journal feels oddly empty.

 _"You enjoy his company,"_ Dumbledore's voice returns as if nothing at all has happened, noting his observation with amusement.  _"I never thought_ —"

He does his best to ignore the voice. It drones on ceaselessly, allowing him precious little rest for thought, not that he needs to do any pondering at this point. He'd rather not dwell on whatever happened just now—he might be going insane, but he'll deal with it later. As long as his power or intelligence doesn't start degrading, he can just shut his mind off from his screaming conscience and brush it aside. The more pressing matter is what he'll do in regards to the long-term.

The only possible action he can take after his stalling tactic is to open the diary once more and talk to Harry, but for some reason, he feels... unnerved by the thought of it.

Tom is not the same anymore. There's a loaded, thick sensation in his chest which must be anxiety, though he cannot say what the cause is. He feels off-balance; how will this affect him when he attempts to resume his subtle manipulations on the boy? He does not know, and not knowing isn't something he's used to.

He cannot allow an attachment to be developed, but what if,  _what if_ —

" _What I'd like to know, Tom,"_ Dumbledore interrupts kindly,  _"is why you think you can prevent an attachment from being developed, when there's already one there?"_

Tom is silent.

* * *

"This way, Harry," Remus guides him through the sterile white corridor, avoiding Healers that are running around in a hurry, moving out of the way of patients walking around, managing not to get in the way of other visitors who seem either grim, content or utterly distraught. Harry is briefly distracted by a young woman who starts going into hysterics as a Healer talks to her, collapsing on the floor in tears.

They move around the unfortunate lady, turning around the corner. St. Mungo's is much larger than any hospital Harry's ever seen, and he's had to visit quite a few times in Little Whinging. The muggle hospital there hadn't been  _nearly_ as busy and large as this one—and filled with machinery, in some rooms. Here he glimpses rooms that are filled with bottles, potions, steaming cauldrons, books, and glass cases filled with all sorts of ingredients.

"Nervous?" Remus asks him as they head up a floor through the stairs. He doesn't look as tired as he did two weeks ago, but still not entirely healthy. If nothing else, he seems a bit happier, a bit more light on his feet.

"A bit," Harry concedes, trying not to fidget too much. He and Sirius have been exchanging letters frequently. That first response from his godfather was a bit embarrassing for him at the time. He was sitting at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall when Hedwig flew in and dropped the letter into his hands.

Harry wears his heart on his sleeve, so to read that there's someone out there that actually wants him, wants to take care of him and be the parent he never had—well, he was forced to use the I-got-something-in-my-eye excuse when Ron noticed his eyes getting watery.

From that point on he was much more uninhibited in his interaction with Sirius, his letters becoming so long his fingers started cramping by the end of them. Sirius always responded in kind, though his tended to be a little bit shorter as Harry filled him in on everything he missed so far. And now they're going to meet, face to face. He's anxious, but excited, though he doesn't know what to expect. For the past few days, the image of Sirius was one of a gaunt, almost frail looking man with a manic glint in his eyes. He wonders how much three weeks have changed the man.

Remus leads him to a door near the end of the corridor, where it's more empty than the rest of the hallways. He knocks, and a moment later, the door is opened.

It's not Sirius—it's a young woman with thick, dark brown hair tied in a bun atop her head, her light green eyes a striking contrast to her darker, warm beige skin that's covered in freckles. She's tall, her posture almost stately, though she looks frustrated.

"Hello, Remus," she greets him curtly, rolling up the sleeves of her blouse before looking to the boy standing next to him. "You must be Harry. I'm Alouette Bouvier, but just call me Lou." There's a distinct French accent there when she pronounces her name.

Harry supposes this must be Sirius' therapist, then. He shakes the hand she extends to him and almost yelps at the surprisingly strong grip.

"Er, nice to meet you." he says awkwardly, trying to resist the urge to rub over his hand. She has a sweet face, and a pretty name, but her demeanour contradicts it entirely.

"Move out of the doorway, Lou! Let me see my godson!"

"That's  _Miss Bouvier_ to you, Mr. Black." she replies, her tone and eyes a bit softer now, glancing over her shoulder to someone that's just out of Harry's range of vision, his heart shooting up his throat at the voice. The moment she moves, Harry slips past her into the room.

It isn't as white as the rest of the hospital—the walls have beige paint, moving posters of Quidditch and muggle posters of motorcycles (as well as a rather saucy calendar of attractive muggle women) decorating the room. The single bed next to the window is empty and made neatly, while someone is occupying the wooden chair at the desk, but only for a second.

Sirius Black is a man wholly reborn. He looks much cleaner and fresher in every way. The tinge of his skin is healthy and the skinniness has all but disappeared aside from what Harry suspects is natural. His hair is thick in combed, wavy locks, cut off to his shoulders, and his facial hair neatly trimmed. The look in his eyes still holds a glint—one of happiness this time.

For a moment that only lasts a second, they just look at each other. Harry is struck speechless by the sight of this person that seems so different from the man he'd seen in the Shrieking Shack. Three weeks had worked miracles, though there is still something about his eyes that holds a shadow, one that will probably never leave.

"Harry!" Sirius has an impossibly wide grin on his face, his hands on Harry's shoulders the very next second. "Merlin, you could've been James' twin."

The stare aimed at him is so attentive Harry starts feeling shy, even though there's no reason to. They've exchanged dozens of letters, have gotten to know each other, but to meet in person is something else entirely. Harry feels as if his senses are being overwhelmed—this man that smiles at him so radiantly, his father's best friend, was left to rot in a prison cell for twelve years. It eats at him from the inside out, not allowing him to fully enjoy this moment.

"You look…" Harry clears his throat, swallowing with difficulty, not quite meeting Sirius' eyes in fear that he'll show the misplaced guilt there. "You look great. A lot better than when we first met."

"I feel a lot better, too." Sirius replies, gesturing to the small couch on the other side of the room, next to a virtually empty bookcase. "Let's sit down—Remus, good to see you."

The former teacher who'd been watching near the doorway next to the therapist takes that as a cue to step inside with a faint smile. "I hope you haven't been driving Ms. Bouvier too much up the wall in my absence?"

Alouette (Harry really can't bring himself to refer to her as something as non-intimidating as  _Lou_ , it's too much of a contradiction inside his head) curves her lips in something resembling a smile, though it looks much too stiff to be called one. "I've had to apply some new  _techniques_  to make sure Mr. Black took his medicine. And please, Remus, just Lou."

"Techniques, sure, short of cramming the pills down my throat," Sirius sneers sardonically, sitting down on one end with Harry next to him, Remus taking a seat on the desk-chair. "You should stop telling people to call you that, they never will. You scare them too much."

Alouette almost bristles with indignation, though the playful shimmer in her eyes gives her away. " _You_ call me Lou."

"I'm a patient in a mental ward; I don't think you should be using me as an example."

"I thought you were just his therapist?" Harry asks, failing to suppress his smirk at the conversation though his curiosity overrides his amusement for the moment.

"I'm more like his case worker, you could say. I oversee both his physical and emotional progress, and make sure he doesn't regress." Alouette answers, suddenly shifting to a more business-like mien. "Most patients are assigned a single Healer specialising in whatever area they need, but since Mr. Black is such a unique case, we have created an extensive recovery program for him to help him integrate back into society. There's a Healer overseeing his physical well-being, a Mind Healer to deal with his trauma, and a guide to retrain him in magic. I supervise his overall development."

"Retrain him?"

"Prolonged exposure to dementors tends to cause a block in magic if the victim survives. Luckily, Mr. Black seems to be an exceptionally resilient individual, though he'd be doing much better if he  _took his medicine_." Alouette frowns disapprovingly at Sirius with this, her arms folded sternly across her chest, though he seems to be ignoring it.

"He looks plenty fine to me."Harry notes, perhaps a bit naively.

"That's what I've been telling them this whole time." Sirius says exasperatedly, which only causes Alouette's frown to deepen.

"Your body has already been cleared off the treatment list—your mind is a different matter." She turns back to Harry. "He'll be free to go once he arranges stable living arrangements, but he'll still have mandatory therapy sessions once a week." Back to Sirius, a strict look on her face. "If you want to get custody of Harry, you won't persuade the court by skipping out on your scheduled medication."

Sirius grumbles something unintelligible underneath his breath but doesn't retort. Harry wonders what kind of emotional complications his godfather could be having, and imagines it can't be too pleasant if it means compulsory psychological treatment.

Alouette glances at her watch. "I should go, I have another patient waiting for me to do a check-up. It was nice meeting you, Harry. Remus," She nods to him. "Keep him out of trouble."

Without another word to Sirius or waiting for a response from any of them, the woman leaves, closing the door behind her.

"She's quite something, isn't she?" Remus says casually, it being followed by another grunt from Sirius, who doesn't look too happy with his case worker—it figures, really. From his letters Harry could already tell Sirius is a typical Gryffindor, and they don't do very well with rules. Alouette on the other hand seems to be very severe with her rules. "So, aside from  _not_ taking your medicine, what else have you done the past few days?"

"Not much. I arranged a few meetings with estate agents to look at some houses, but that's about it." Sirius answers, sounding a bit grim about it. "I could use the distraction, what with the trial being next week."

The silence that follows is weighted, more so for the two adults in the room than for Harry. He can't imagine what they had to be feeling—if Ron or Hermione betrayed him like Pettigrew had his parents and Remus and Sirius, he didn't know how he would react. If he would even have it in him to go to their trial.

"I want to come as well," he eventually says, earning mixed looks of surprise and concern. "I need to see it for myself." It isn't just about Pettigrew; this trial is about something much bigger. He needs to witness first-hand how the Ministry operates before making any permanent judgements.

"Are you sure?" Sirius questions, a crease between his brows. "We already know the outcome. He'll be heading into Azkaban for the rest of his life. There's no need for you to—"

"You think that's normal?" Harry blurts out before he can stop himself, honestly startled by what Sirius is saying. "To already know the outcome of a trial days before it's held?"

"What are you talking about, Harry?  _We_ know the truth; Wormtail is guilty."

"But don't you even want to know why he did it? What lead him to-to betray you like that?"

"He was a coward, plain and simple, and now he'll pay the price." Sirius replies with an edge to his voice, starting to grow defensive. Harry doesn't want to push this issue, but he hasn't been comfortable with the idea ever since he understood what Azkaban was really  _for_. From his peripheral vision he can see Remus staring at him observantly, remaining silent.

Eventually, very quietly, Harry says, "I don't like the idea of Azkaban."

"Harry, no one likes the idea of Azkaban, but Death Eater scum like Wormtail—"

"It's not about him, it's about  _us_." he persists, his voice stronger now. "You were sent to Azkaban and you were innocent. Sure, you might think that Wormtail deserves it, but what about other innocent people that are locked up in this giant prison in the middle of nowhere? We're literally  _torturing_ people as if it's the most normal thing in the world!"

Sirius looks at a loss for words, glancing at Remus as if asking for a clarification, though he seems pensive more than anything else as he watches Harry closely. "You don't want him to go to Azkaban?"

"I don't want  _anyone_ to go to Azkaban anymore," Harry replies decisively. "I don't want there to be an Azkaban at all. I know that's… well, it must sound pretty mad to you, and I have no idea how to do it or what the alternative would be, but it has to be better than this." The thought of another Sirius, locked deep inside that hell-hole of a prison, forgotten by the rest of the world, is pure nightmare fuel.

"You have a much stronger sense of justice than most," Remus eventually says after a long pause. "Just like Lily."

That draws a startled laugh out of Sirius, who shakes his head. "She always did go on and on about the poor House Elves."

"House Elves?" Harry says with a confused look, thrown off-track.

"Oh, yes, it was always  _slavery this_  and  _oppression that_ —James insisted on getting one when she was pregnant of you to make things easier around the house, since he still had a full-time job as an Auror. But she put her foot down and refused, forcing him to do most of the housework instead."

"Wait, didn't she have magic too? Couldn't she just do it herself anyway?"

"Not exactly," Sirius says with a lopsided smirk. "When a witch gets pregnant, as far as I understand it, her hormones tend to mess up her magical core for a while. It differs from woman to woman. Some have very little side-effects, but Lily's in particular was really, er,  _explosive_ sometimes."

He has Harry's full attention as he goes on to tell a story about how Lily almost burned the house down when she tried to levitate a glass of water on the kitchen counter to where she was sitting at the table. Instead she ended up setting the counter on fire. James ran downstairs in a panic to put the fire out and burned off one eyebrow in the process—something which Sirius, regrettably, hadn't managed to take a picture of.

Talking to Sirius feels incredibly natural, as if he's just an old friend Harry hasn't spoken to in a while. Things seem to fall right into their place with Sirius reciting several fun stories involving his parents that Harry hasn't heard yet, Remus filling in blanks and adding commentary when appropriate. They laugh together, enjoy the time spent so much they lose track of it until the sky starts to grow dark, and even then, leaving again isn't something Harry looks forward to.

He's staying with the Weasleys for most of the vacation, a temporary arrangement until he finds a new home, and as much fun it is to spend the days with his best friend, Harry feels an enormous reluctance when Remus stands up and announces it is time for them to head home.

"I'll visit again in a few days," he promises Sirius, standing outside the door of his room, Remus behind him out in the corridor.

"I'm glad to hear it." Without even hesitating, as if it's just  _meant_ to be this way, Sirius pulls him in for a tight hug, ruffling his hair affectionately in the process. "You're a good kid, Harry. I'm lucky to be your godfather." But there is a hesitance there. In Harry's eyes it is baseless, but Sirius' demons can't seem to allow him to take something as it is, so he asks, "You haven't changed your mind, have you? About living with me after I'm discharged, I mean. I understand if you have, I'm not the most—"

"No, I haven't." Harry replies instantly, and the relieved smile on Sirius' face makes his heart clench, the face of a broken man flashing inside his head. "You'll be fine. It'll be great." he says with nothing but pure conviction in his voice, the grip of Sirius' hand on his shoulder tight without being painful.

"Good," the man says with an approving nod. "Because I doubt you'll ever be able to get rid of me from now on."

Walking away from that to return home feels like one of the hardest things Harry has ever done, but even if that part of the goodbye is bitter, there's a sweet part that makes it all worthwhile. A thought that, he is sure, would make for the most brilliant Patronus of them all.

For the first time in his life, Harry has family.


	10. Chapter 10

The sun is bright as it shines down on the long table for eleven in the backyard of the Burrow. By seven o'clock, the wood is groaning under loaded dishes of Mrs. Weasley's excellent cooking. The nine Weasleys, Harry and Hermione are settling themselves down to eat beneath a clear, deep-blue sky.

It has been a few days since Harry's first visit to Sirius at St. Mungo's. The trial is only two days away and while he has no reason to, he feels a bit anxious. Perhaps it is because it signals the culmination of a year's worth of stress, but he can't help the tinge of paranoia that haunts him when he lies in bed at night. The Ministry's record on justice and transparency (and he has actually looked into that in recent weeks) is far from spotless. What if they brush the truth aside again?

Clearly they don't value it; the amount of scandals in the past decade alone that have been brushed under the rug is astounding. Allowing the de-regulation on safety measures for brooms is just a very recent example: deaths thanks to broom-related incidents have increased by a third ever since legislation was passed allowing for a higher speed-limit. The cause for this? The legal bribing of politicians from the businesses that make these brooms—faster brooms, even at the cost of safety (though this is scarcely mentioned in advertisements) are much more attractive after all.

Indeed, the games played in the Wizengamot that handles both the enforcement of laws as well as the creation of them are disturbing, but even this corruption is typical politics. It is ultimately to be expected in a society that blindly prides itself on its supposed superiority to muggle societies.

No, what's truly shocking to Harry, next to Azkaban's very  _existence_ , is how non-humans have little to no rights to speak of. Werewolves, goblins, house elves and centaurs are some groups that have been dealing with discrimination and prejudice for centuries—they do not even have the right for a trial, as such rights have only been appointed to  _humans_ , and the aforementioned groups are classified as  _beings_. Less than humans, the Ministry wants you to believe.

Oh yes, there is something amiss, something terribly wrong and disquieting about the wizarding world. What if Remus is ever accused of something? It's not like it hasn't happened before. Werewolves are thought to be inherently violent, possessing no self-control; framing one for a murder is stupidly easy. The Wizengamot, according to the law, would be entirely within its rights to condemn him to a one-way trip to Azkaban on the spot.  _Has_ condemned several without a trial on the spot, in the past.

All in all, Harry is nervous. Disgusted and angry and deeply disappointed, but mostly nervous. Relaying his concerns to Sirius through letters hasn't helped—his godfather brushed them off almost cheerfully and said that the truth is on their side, so they have nothing to fear. Harry had to force himself not to point out that the truth was on his side twelve years ago as well, and that didn't help him one bit at the time.

It is during these times of uncertainty that a particular person's absence from his life feels like hot iron on his skin.

If anyone can offer solid reassurance, it is definitely Tom; Harry imagines he'd reason his anxiety away at the snap of a finger, offer something so logically sound that the little irrationalities in his thoughts would disappear instantly. Unfortunately, the diary remains sealed. Either way he is still connected to it, and he can feel his friend's presence there as strong as ever, which is the only reason he hasn't been stressing out over that as well.

It also sucks he can't talk to anyone about it. If he hadn't promised silence to Tom, he would've relayed all these issues to Ron and Hermione already if only to have someone else to talk to without having the burden of secrets. Still, he's getting more concerned with every day that passes. How much rest does Tom need?

As all these thoughts pass his head, the people surrounding him seated at the table have been in lighthearted conversation for a while now. Harry listens rather than talks as he helps himself to chicken and ham pie, boiled potatoes, and salad.

At the far end of the table, Percy tells his father all about his report on cauldron bottoms, now working for the Ministry (which he never lacks to brag about when the opportunity presents itself). Harry has to put effort into not glaring every time he hears the name  _Crouch_ —the man that put his godfather away without so much as a trial.

"I've told Mr. Crouch that I'll have it ready by Tuesday," Percy mentions pompously, splitting a potato in half with his fork. "That's a bit sooner than he expected it, but I like to keep on top of things. I think he'll be grateful I've done it in good time, I mean, it's extremely busy in our department just now, what with all the arrangements for the World Cup. We're just not getting the support we need from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Ludo Bagman—"

"I like Ludo," Mr. Weasley says mildly. "He was the one who got us such good tickets for the Cup. I did him a bit of a favour: His brother, Otto, got into a spot of trouble—a lawnmower with unnatural powers—I smoothed the whole thing over."

"Oh, Bagman's likeable enough, of course," Percy's tone is dismissive as he barely touches his food seeming more interested in chatting. "But how he ever got to be Head of Department… when I compare him to Mr. Crouch! I can't see Mr. Crouch losing a member of our department and not trying to find out what's happened to them. You realize Bertha Jorkins has been missing for over a month now? Went on holiday to Albania and never came back?"

"Yes, I was asking Ludo about that," Mr. Weasley replies, frowning. "He says Bertha's gotten lost plenty of times before now—though I must say, if it was someone in my department, I'd be worried."

In the middle of the table, Mrs. Weasley argues with Bill about his earring, which seems to have been a recent acquisition.

"…with a horrible great fang on it. Really, Bill, what do they say at the bank?"

"Mum, no one at the bank gives a damn how I dress as long as I bring home plenty of treasure," Bill answers, seeming to barely suppress rolling his eyes.

"And your hair's getting silly, dear," Mrs. Weasley continues as if she didn't hear her son, fingering her wand lovingly. "I wish you'd let me give it a trim."

"I like it," Ginny pipes up, seated beside Bill. "You're so old-fashioned, mum. Anyway, it's nowhere near as long as Professor Dumbledore's."

Next to Mrs. Weasley, Fred, George, Ron and Charlie are all talking spiritedly about the World Cup. A topic, to Harry's shame, he doesn't know a whole lot about. Quidditch runs in his family—his father was a wildly talented Chaser, and he is quite a skilled Seeker, yet he hasn't a clue about current Quidditch events.

"It's got to be Ireland," Charlie states thickly, through a mouthful of potato. "They flattened Peru in the semifinals."

"Bulgaria has got Viktor Krum, though," Fred counters.

"Krum's one decent player, Ireland has got seven. I wish England had got through. That was embarrassing, that was."

"What happened?" Harry inquires eagerly, thinking it about high time he brushed up on his Quidditch knowledge.

"Went down to Transylvania, three hundred and ninety to ten," Charlie mumbles gloomily, shovelling around a few peas on his plate with his knife. "Shocking performance. And Wales lost to Uganda, and Scotland was slaughtered by Luxembourg."

Mr. Weasley takes that moment to conjure up candles to light the darkening garden before they have their home-made strawberry ice cream, and by the time they finish, moths are fluttering low over the table, and the warm air is perfumed with the smells of grass and honeysuckle.

Harry feels extremely well fed and perhaps even relaxed for the first time in weeks as he watches several gnomes sprinting through the rosebushes, laughing madly and closely pursued by Crookshanks. Surrounded by friends, it is impossible for him to stay that tense for long.

"So," Ron remarks after a long debate on who the best Chaser is for Ireland with his brothers, "have you heard from Sirius lately?"

That topic gets the attention of nearly the entire table. The topic of Sirius Black is discussed at least twice a day in the Burrow, and has been somewhere on the front page on the  _Daily Prophet_ for a while now. He's getting a bit tired of repeating the same things, but with Sirius' most recent letter at least he has something new to announce.

"He said he found an apartment in London, just west from Diagon Alley," Harry answers, trying to ignore the eyes watching him. "He wants us to take a look at it together, after the trial."

"Will he be released from St. Mungo's that soon?" Mrs. Weasley asks, eyebrows furrowed in concern. She especially has drilled Harry about Sirius after he revealed his plans to go live with his godfather.

"I think so. He's still gonna get therapy, once a week."

"Well, if you ask me, it's far too early. I would've had him stay there for at least three more months." Percy remarks stiffly from across the table. "Who knows when he could snap. Azkaban does that to people."

"Yeah? And who's the git who locked him up there in the first place?" Harry snaps despite himself.

"Mr. Crouch—"

"—can  _shove it_." Harry ignores Hermione's admonishing look and Ron stifling his snicker at Percy's face turning scarlet, opting to glower at him instead.

"Now, now, Perce, watch the blood pressure." George chimes in good-naturedly, earning a scalding look from his brother.

"That's enough, boys," Mrs. Weasley announces abruptly, standing up and breaking the uncomfortable tension. "Who wants to volunteer for clean-up duty, hmm?"

The twins exchange nervous looks when their mother's eyes land on them and simultaneously blurt out several excuses, none of which Mrs. Weasley pays any attention to. Since they're still minors, they'll have to do it with hand, too; a punishment for the Ton Tongue Toffee they tricked Percy into eating that morning.

Amidst all this, staying with the Weasleys, his concerns for the trial, his worries for the state of the wizarding world, Tom still not talking to him, Harry has forgotten something very important. Something that happened a few days ago, and something he doesn't remember until it happens again that night when he falls asleep.

His scar is hurting.

* * *

The large dungeon he enters is intimidating, to say the least, but it is preferable to the constant flashes of cameras from the press that has circled around the courtroom. The walls are made of dark stone, dimly lit by torches. Empty benches are on either side of him, but ahead, in the highest benches of all, are many shadowy figures. They've been talking in low voices, but as the heavy door swings closed behind Harry and Sirius, a brief silence falls.

An irritated male voice rings across the courtroom.

"You're late."

"Sorry about that," Sirius responds easily without caring to give a reason, sauntering over to the steps leading up to the benches, choosing to sit lower than the people already present. Harry follows anxiously, his gaze falling on the man sitting in the middle of the crowd.

Albus Dumbledore, unlike his fellows in the court, is wearing  _fashionable_ violet robes, though he does not smile when he meets Harry's gaze nor do his eyes twinkle. Instead, the look behind the half-moon spectacles turns into one of slight worry when it's aimed at Sirius.

"Yes, well." Fudge shifts uncomfortably in his seat next to Dumbledore, dressed in a plum-coloured robe with an elaborately worked silver 'W' on the left-hand side of the chest. The others sitting around him are dressed identically. Dumbledore sticks out like a sore thumb. "I'm not certain the presence of Mr. Potter—"

Sirius pauses on the steps almost abruptly. "He has a right to be here," comes the cool response. He glances to Dumbledore, who gives him a careful nod, and sits down.

Harry drops his gaze to the chair in the centre of the room after sitting down next to Sirius, the two of them a bit separated from the members of the court. The arms of the chair are covered in chains; Wormtail will most likely be bound to it.

As the faint whispers resume, Harry looks around the court. On Dumbledore's right sits Fudge, and a broad, square-jawed witch with very short grey hair sits on his left; she wears a monocle and looks forbidding.

Only seconds after Harry and Sirius have taken a seat and before he can observe anyone else, the door opens once more. Escorted—or rather,  _dragged_ —straight towards the chair by two men, is Peter Pettigrew. The whispers fall into another silence, much more ominous than the one Harry and Sirius got.

Wormtail looks even worse than when he transformed into his human form in the Shrieking Shack. From the way his eyes flits about the room Harry thinks the man might've lost his mind a little, and he wonders if they've already introduced him to Azkaban.

Oddly, he feels very little when he looks at the terrified man being chained by his jailers. Next to him, however, Sirius stiffened the minute the doors opened. Harry glances at his godfather, and can read nothing from his expression, which scares him more than had he shown his fury.

"The accused being present," Dumbledore speaks up, his voice the first sound in the room aside from Wormtail's barely audible whimpering, "let us begin. Are you ready?" he calls down the row, to a man sitting at the very end of the front bench, holding a quill. It's the stenographer, most likely. The man gives a nod.

"Disciplinary hearing of the twenty-seventh of June," Dumbledore commences, and the stenographer starts taking notes at once, "into offences committed under the Decree for the Registration of Animagi, the International Statute of Secrecy, and the Statute of Criminal and Civil Law by Peter Wagnus Pettigrew.

"Interrogators: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Chief Warlock; Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic; Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Court Scribe: Henrik Theodore Lombard. Witnesses for the prosecution: Sirius Orion Black and Harry James Potter. Members of the Wizengamot—well, you can write down all the names later, Henry. The charges against the accused are as follows…."

Harry starts zoning out. Dumbledore's voice goes down a list that he only picks up a few words of.  _Mass murder. Aiding an enemy of the state. Framing an innocent man._ Attached to these keywords are all the laws and decrees he has violated in the process, something he has no interest in hearing. Seeing it translated into legal terms makes it feel too impersonal, somehow.

He prefers to watch Wormtail, and ponders about what could be going through his head. Does he feel any remorse for what he did, or is he only sorry that he got caught? If he had another chance, would he change things to make them better, or would he only save himself? How low can a man like him really sink until he hits the bottom?

The beady eyes that have a constant, watery look to them dart about every few seconds while long, sharp fingernails scratch on the arms of the steel chair. Once, only once, does his gaze linger on Harry when their stares are bound across the room.

He sees something there that turns his heart into ice.

Harry expected to see fear and nothing else but fear, and there's definitely specks of that reflected, but the predominant emotion present is hatred. For a moment, he thinks it's animosity towards him and Sirius, for capturing him and condemning him to a one-way trip to Azkaban, but then Wormtail does something very odd. When he looks at Sirius, the expression changes a bit before it is shifted down to his knees, contorting into something akin to shame. That's when Harry spots it: self-loathing.

He barely moves an inch after picking that up and he continues to watch, all his concentration focused on his vision while all the noise is blocked. Is he feeling regret after all? Are they going to imprison a man that still has a semblance of goodness in him left?

Next to him, he finally notices Sirius has been speaking and he's barely been paying attention as his godfather relayed the story of that Halloween night and what really happened.

Wormtail does not even receive a questioning—apparently the Aurors have already interrogated him in private with Veritaserum, and one of them comes forward with a transcript to recite some of Wormtail's quotes to the Wizengamot.

"…second hour, he said, 'I had no choice'. We took a ten minute break after that, and when we came back he was curled up in the corner of the room, in some sort of catatonic state. Had to call a Healer. Didn't get much farther than that." The Auror with the wiry, short grey hair pauses there, glancing surreptitiously to his captive, still keeping an eye on him even though he's bound in shackles.

Dumbledore nods, and with his hands folded in front of him, leans down a bit from the stand, giving Wormtail a grave look. "Mr. Pettigrew, do you acknowledge the testimony of Mr. Dawlish as truth?"

Wormtail is still for a very long moment, before he (without even looking up to Dumbledore) nods almost imperceptibly.

"I will need a verbal response for the stenographer, Mr. Pettigrew."

Finally the small man looks up, glances once to Sirius, and breathes, "Yes."

Next to him, Harry hears a sharp intake of breath.

"In which case, do you have anything else to add before we cast the vote?"

' _It's over already?'_ Harry looks around, the shadows of the dungeon hiding many that are present. He feels out of place in this crowd—is it even a crowd? It feels more like a faceless machine.

Wormtail's breathing becomes laboured as he looks at his former friend, whose presence next to Harry feels like that of a statue. "Yes, I-I have... I have something to say." He looks like he wants to stand up, but his chains don't allow him that. "Sirius, old friend—"

Harry catches his godfather's wrist before his hand can pull out his wand. Sirius' muscles twitch, but he does nothing to break the hold.

"I didn't know, I didn't know he would kill James and Lily, he said- he said he'd only—"

"YOU LIE!" It is nearly impossible to restrain him when Sirius nearly jumps down the stands, wand now drawn and seeming almost delirious with rage. Harry is smaller and nearly gets overpowered, were it not for the assistance of the other people sitting around them, everyone else present letting out shocked gasps or loud comments of their own. "YOU WANTED THEM DEAD!"

"They were my friends as well!" Wormtail howls, shaking in his chair as the Auror from before, Dawlish, has put himself between Sirius and him, his own wand raised. Harry still has his arms firmly around Sirius' waist, but the man still struggles, his fury having overridden whatever reason he has. "He said he only wanted Harry!"

Sirius breaks free and fires a spell that hits a pillar behind Wormtail, narrowly missing his head. The pillar explodes, combusting into dust and stones, and Sirius makes it down a stand until someone gets him with a Petrifying Charm and he falls down on the steps, body rigid (though his fall is cushioned by violet-coloured pillows).

Wormtail's gaze shifts to Harry once the threat of Sirius is gone, and Harry has never seen anyone look at him with such pure revulsion in their eyes. "IT WAS  _YOU_ HE WANTED! IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT THEY'RE DEAD!" he screams, and as Harry looks at him and hears such desperation in his voice, he cannot even bring himself to hate him back. "YOUR FAULT! YOU'RE TO BLAME, ONLY YOU! YOU'RE—"

Dawlish knocks Wormtail out instantly with a  _Stupefy_ , and as the commotion is sorted out, Harry remains standing as if nailed to the ground, looking down at Wormtail and finding there is nothing inside of him that feels any kind of emotion towards the unconscious criminal. He feels neither pity nor anger, and realizes distantly some part of him has dehumanized Wormtail. Peter Pettigrew no longer exists.

The Aurors drag Wormtail out of the chair, no doubt getting him back to his cell, and Dumbledore restores order to the Wizengamot with a few calming words. Sirius is un-Petrified and while his face is still red and he looks livid, he's no longer completely out of control, seeming to have regained his senses. A part of Harry is frightened and deeply disturbed at the sudden outburst—he saw it, that mad, ferocious glint in his eyes. It wasn't normal.

"Now that we've all calmed down," Dumbledore starts evenly, and Harry has never been more grateful for the man's composure that offers him an anchor in the midst of this chaos, "I think it's time to vote. Unless the two witnesses have any last words to the Wizengamot?"

Sirius moves back to his seat, consciously avoiding Harry's look, and does not respond. Harry himself, however, thinks it is time he ought to speak to this faceless machine.

"I'd like to ask you all for something, if that's okay." he starts out carefully, eyes somewhat apprehensively scanning the mass of people around him. At Dumbledore's nod and kind gaze, he takes a deep breath and gathers his nerves. "Don't send him to Azkaban."

Whispers ripple through the crowd like a wave, and Harry can feel both Dumbledore and Sirius' eyes now intensely focused on him, and tries to ignore it. Raising his voice to drown out the clamour, he continues. "Believe me, I'm not saying this for  _his_ benefit. Why would I? I'm saying it for our benefit. Do any of you actually realize what you're doing to these people by sending them there?"

"Harry!" Fudge pipes up, the colour drained from his face. "Dear boy, you must be beside yourself, yes, you must have no clue what you're saying. I see this whole ordeal has affected you quite a bit—I told you we shouldn't have let him attend the trial!" he exclaims that last part, turning to Dumbledore.

"I think we should let him finish before jumping to conclusions, Minister," Dumbledore replies coolly, still looking at his student. "Go on, Harry." he says in a much kinder tone, the twinkle in his eyes having returned. He almost seems to look… proud. It is the only thing that keeps Harry from losing his voice, and he resumes.

"All those people in Azkaban right now—you're torturing them. I bet most of them would pick execution over a life-sentence there. Wormtail got my parents killed, but I don't want him there, I don't want  _anyone_ put in Azkaban anymore, because I know there are innocent people in there suffering right this minute. Just like Sirius did, when all of  _you_ turned your backs on him!"

The silence turns palpably tense, the discomfort exuding from the Wizengamot giving him a tiny bit of satisfaction, but not enough to stop the out-pour of pent-up frustration.

"He was stuck in there for  _twelve years_! Anyone else would've long gone insane, and if it wasn't for him escaping, he would've  _died_ there, and no one would've cared! How do you people sleep at night, knowing a completely innocent person is being tormented, all because you couldn't do your jobs right!" He doesn't realize his voice is echoing loudly through the dungeon, thundering against the walls, until he feels a hand on his shoulder that seems to pull him out of the tirade.

He tries evening out his breath, continuing in a softer tone. "This isn't about people like Wormtail who do these horrible things. It's about us, and it's about the innocent people we harm. I would just like to ask you to think about it. How would you feel if they locked you away to be tortured by dementors for a crime you didn't even commit? Just ask yourselves if it's really worth it."

He doesn't stick around for the vote. Sirius guides him down the stands, whispers resuming behind their backs, and Harry is glad to be out of the dungeon. Even the flash-lights from cameras are a more tolerable alternative than staying there any longer; he feels like he might suffocate if he doesn't get fresh air, soon.

Sirius doesn't say a thing but his hand never leaves Harry's shoulder, either. They should talk about his outburst, but Harry isn't sure how to bring it up with this silence between them. In all honesty, he feels tired as well. His rant isn't going to make much of a difference. He has a feeling the press stationed outside the doors might have gotten wind of it, seeing as how he was nearly screaming during the entirety of it, but he doesn't really care about the consequences of that either.

If nothing else, at least it feels good to make a stand. To let it out and let them know that he's not okay with this, and that they shouldn't be either.

Using the visitor's exit (a phone booth of all things) they end up taking a walk to Sirius' potential apartment as it's only a few minutes away. Harry almost forgot about their planned visit to take a look at the place.

"They're still going to send him to Azkaban," Sirius eventually remarks as they walk in the shadow of a tall building, the sun just setting and dipping the sky in oranges and reds. The streets feel tranquil.

"I know," Harry mumbles back, his voice a bit hoarse. "I just felt like… I had to say something."

He doesn't want to be a part of it. Of them. That faceless machine. He  _had_ to speak out against it, if only to find comfort in establishing a line between them, separating himself from it all.

"For what it's worth," Sirius says, and Harry meets his eyes now, "I'm proud of you."

He opens his mouth to find some sort of response, but his tongue seems to have disappeared into the back of his throat, and all he can do is nod meekly.

It's the first time anyone has told him that.

"Hey, let's get some ice-cream," Sirius suggests out of the blue when they walk past an ice-cream shop, changing the topic in the most tactless way possible. Still, that single, mischievous smirk is enough for Harry to pretend and push his worries aside, and suddenly, even if for a short while, all is well.

* * *

"Sleeping this early?"

His hand fumbles to find the switch of the lamp on top of the night-stand, and even when he flicks it on, he can barely make out the figure in front of him with his blurred vision. The shade reaches out something to him, and when he takes it, he instantly recognises his glasses and puts them on.

Even with his vision now sharp, he has to blink a few times and pinch himself to make sure this is not a dream, and Tom is indeed standing there in front of his bed, looking down at him with a faint curve of his lips. The dim light of the lamp creates shadows on his face that make his features look a bit softer, somehow.

Harry feels a bit stupid after a few seconds pass and he has literally nothing to say (in his defence, he  _had_ been in the process of falling asleep when Tom popped up). In the end, he just blurts out, "Hi?"

He doesn't have to worry about volume control much now; the twins are staying over at a friend's place and Bill and Charlie have both been gone for a few days on business, opening up a few rooms in the Burrow. As much as he loves Ron, the guy really snores too loudly sometimes, and especially because of the trial having been that morning he jumped at the opportunity for some privacy, a chance to sort his thoughts out and process the events.

Tom's eyebrows arch sharply, bringing him back to reality. The mockery in his expression is absent from his tone when he replies. "Hello."

"Uh…" Harry brushes his hand through his hair, though really, there's no actual distinction between his bed-hair and his regular hair. "So I guess you're better now?"

"I am as well as can be." Tom leaves it at that, and does not elaborate, instead attentively looking over the frazzled boy in front of him.

Harry can still barely take it all in, hasn't realised how sorely he has missed the sheer tranquillity and comfort that comes from Tom's presence. He feels at home again, peaceful, almost. He doesn't think he has missed anyone this notably before. Of course he always misses Ron and Hermione when they're away, and all his other friends, but Tom became a real part of his life—not part of his routine, or just someone to have fun with or be mates with, but a real part of who he  _is_. Tom shaped him in certain ways. It's the most significant impact anyone has ever had on him.

"I'm glad you're back," he states as these thoughts cross his mind, real feeling behind the words, and Tom looks at him almost curiously, head tilting slightly to the side. The stare isn't exactly unnerving, but the longer it goes on, the more anxious Harry starts feeling.

"I'm glad you think so." Tom then smiles, and it's just the way he looks at him that makes all of Harry's drowsiness disappear, his stomach doing a spontaneous flip and his chest filled with a sort of buzzing sensation he's never felt before.

Is it normal to feel this insanely happy out of nowhere?

There's just something about how the shadows play off his face, the unusual brightness of his eyes, the way his lips twist—it's just  _different_  to Harry now. He wonders what has changed.

"Would you like to fill me in on what I've missed?" Tom offers after probably realising that Harry isn't in the right state to speak at the moment. "Though, if you're too tired—I did interrupt your sleep, after all…"

"No, it's fine, I don't mind," Harry says quickly, eagerly, immediately sitting up straighter. "I've got a lot of things to tell you."

Tom nods, and takes a seat on the edge of Harry's bed so naturally that it's as if he never really left.

"Start from the beginning."


	11. Chapter 11

She wanted to meet at Grimmauld Place. Sirius doesn't know why, but he complied simply because he's curious to see what his shrink planned for him. His ancestral home is a place of very few good memories, but perhaps it's time he paid a visit, if only to bid it goodbye, permanently.

Peter's trial taught him something he should've known earlier—he's not ready. Twelve years of Azkaban cannot be wiped from the ledger with a carefree smile. The sight of James and Lily's corpses cannot be erased from memory with a hand on their son's shoulder. The anger, the agony, the alienation and acerbity brewing inside of him cannot be ignored with a charade. He has a problem, and he needs to face it and deal with it before it gets the better of him.

As much as Lou is rigid and almost dogmatic in her rules, those rules are there for his benefit. No alcohol. No drugs. Therapy. Talking. Opening up. He didn't like it during their first session and he still doesn't, but he understands that she knows what she's doing better than he does, and it is time to trust her. It won't be easy, and he's afraid of a relapse to the constant nightmares that sometimes even bled into the daylight (Halloween night,  **Lily** _ **,**_ shattered wood, iron bars,  _shadows_ , rotted fingers,  _ **James**_ —), but he knows ignoring it will be worse.

Inside, it is every bit as dusty as it was in the beginning. She's already waiting for him, her hair down, framing her heart-shaped face with small, thick curls. The dim light of the living room makes her skin appear a shade darker than it really is.

"You came," she says when she sees him, thin eyebrows arching nearly to her hairline. Still every bit as stiff as when they first met, her posture straight as a board and her arms crossed over her chest. She's standing near the doorway to the dining room, as if a guard stationed to look out for burglars.

"No need to sound so surprised," he replies as casually as he can, even as memories rush back to him.

Walburga sitting in the armchair near the fireplace, screaming years' worth of disappointment at him as he storms up the stairs, shoving his younger brother out of the way in the process. Regulus' somber eyes, his father's persisting absence, his mother's explosive temper—it hits him all at once. He was shaped and moulded into an impulsive young man masking his troubles in a facade of blithe pleasure. All inside this house.

Lou watches him, the minty green colour of her eyes somehow appearing dark. She says nothing, and merely observes him as he walks through the living room, touching the walls, the fireplace mantle, the pictureless frames, the divan, the chair… he hates it. An image comes to him, of the flames in the fireplace spreading throughout the living room, to the rest of the house, burning it down and reducing it to ashes. The thought makes him smile.

"Would you like to give me a tour of the house?" Lou asks quietly when he too says nothing, the silence having stretched for what feels like decades between them. He wishes Remus would've come with him, but the man insisted this was something he needed to alone. As always, he'd been right. This is a demon only he can face.

"No," the answer comes reflexively.

She simply nods, and gestures to the divan across her chair. He sits down. It's one of the things he  _does_ like about the aloof Frenchwoman; she doesn't push him, she only accepts.

Something about her unbending character reminds him vaguely of his cousin. His mouth twists in a grimace at the thought of Bellatrix. Lou would hate her.

"How have you been?"

He leans back into the couch, fingers stretching over the dark red fabric. He finds a cigarette burn. "Fantastic."

"I heard of your meltdown at the trial."

"It wasn't a  _meltdown_ ," he snaps instinctively, and Lou frowns, crossing a leg over another and leaning back into the chair as if daring him to challenge her. "It was a… a moment of passion."

"A passionate meltdown, then," she quips dryly.

"Very funny. I thought you were a therapist, not a comedian." The deadpan expression on her face remains, and he laughs, shaking his head. "What do you want me to say, Lou?"

"Wendy informed me of your uncooperative behaviour during the weekly session," Lou continues, the sudden change in topic throwing him off guard. She looks serious then; stern, and disapproving. "Is this personal between you two? You always behave with Matthias."

"Matthias isn't a nosy old crone," Sirius sneers at the thought of the Mind Healer who wouldn't stop asking him about his goddamned childhood. What the hell does Walburga's constant berating have to do with his trip to Azkaban anyway?

"It's her job to be nosy, Mr. Black."

"Could you quit it with the Mr. Black?" he grumbles. "My father is Mr. Black, I'm—"

" _Was_ Mr. Black," she corrects him patiently. "I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice, but you are the only surviving member, and thus Head, of Black House."

"Doesn't that mean you have to address me as  _Lord_ Black, then?"

She cracks a smile, though it is nearly imperceptible for the untrained eye. He's been training himself to catch such subtleties, as it is the only way he'll remember that Lou is actually human and not made of stone as she sometimes appears to be. Why couldn't Remus be his shrink?

"I was never one to care for the old ways."

Sirius snorts, looking away. He has the itching urge to light the fireplace. Perhaps Lou notices, because a moment later she pulls out her wand and shoots a spell into the old wood, flames bursting forth before calming down to a cozy fire. It feels oddly homey in this place he never called home.

"I'm taking over from Wendy." His head snaps up at that, eyes locked onto the poised woman sitting across from him. "Clearly I am the only qualified professional that can handle you at the moment. You'll still be getting a monthly physical with Matthias, though he tells me your magical capabilities have restored themselves at an exceptional rate."

At this he grins, winking at her—without meaning it. A deflection. "What can I say? I'm an exceptional man."

She breathes out a laugh that sounds oddly indifferent and never reaches her eyes; he isn't sure whether to laugh with her or take offence. It's irritating. Is he certain that's she's actually a woman and not some figurine pretending to be one? Sometimes he doesn't know.

Maybe she's just reflecting his own lie back at him. It does seem like something she'd do, in which case, it's probably better if he starts displaying the truth.

"Exceptionally temperamental, I'll give you that," she remarks after evening out her facial expression again.

"This about the trial, again?" His eyebrows furrow, jaw set in tension. "What did you expect me to do? Did you even hear what he—"

"I heard everything," Lou acknowledges curtly, and while she had never been truly relaxed, any hint of humour is now gone from her demeanour. "He blames Harry for it, doesn't he? An understandable defence mechanism; likely the guilt of his actions is too much for his conscience to bear, so he projects it onto the only person he can."

"Their  _son_!" Sirius snarls. "My godson! Why can't he project his rubbish onto Voldemort?!"

"Voldemort is gone; Harry makes for a sufficient scapegoat."

When he opens his mouth once more to contradict her, she raises her hand. "I am not telling you to forgive him, though that would lessen your own burden considerably. I'm merely explaining it so you can understand. If you understand, at least you'll stop beating yourself up over it."

He presses his lips together and scowls down at his knees, brooding in silence. Forgive, he will never. Understand? He doesn't want to understand. He just wants the man to suffer for his crimes, his betrayal, like he did.

The truth is that Sirius can never be as good as person as Harry is. His godson is his pride; he is a wonderfully idealistic and just young man. Harry is everything he can't be, not anymore. It's too late for him.

"Sirius." The uncharacteristically informal address makes him look up again, though he doesn't want to. Lou's gaze has a way to unnerve someone, piercing and steady as it is. "You and Pettigrew are not the same."

For a moment he wants to exclaim that he knows that, and that it's ridiculous and downright insulting for her to even suggest that he would think that, but the words are stuck in the back of his throat.

She continues, her voice soft. "You didn't deserve Azkaban."

"I'd have to disagree," he responds instinctively, his own voice hoarse in contrast. He's going to take a leap of faith and trust her with this. It's time to take a step in the right direction. He can't have another outburst like that at the trial—remembering Harry's face, filled with not only shock and concern, but even a hint of fear, has served as an enormous wake-up call. This can't go on.

"You didn't know—"

"Don't you think I already understand that?" he interrupts her coldly, not looking at her but at the ebony coffee table between them, a large scented candle resting in the middle of it covered in dust. "That I haven't been telling myself that? The only thing that kept me sane in Azkaban was knowing that I was innocent, and I get it, I couldn't have predicted he would turn traitor, I couldn't have been there faster, all of it was out of my hands but I don't… I don't  _believe_ it. It makes sense in my head, but I can't bring myself to believe it."

Lou is quiet for a long time, and Sirius doesn't look at her. He looks at his hands, worn out, tired, aching. His nails are incredibly short, a result of chewing on them for years and years. It's one of the few physical scars left that couldn't be fixed with simple healing magic. He could've gotten them regrown, but he never mentioned it to the Healers. It is one of his last reminders, and he can't let go of it.

"You never left Azkaban, did you?"

Sirius leans his head back against the single headrest of the divan, inhaling deeply. "When I close my eyes, it feels as if I'm still there. Sometimes I even think that the time that I spend awake is just a dream, and I'll wake up again when I go to sleep, finding myself back inside that cell, dementors patrolling the corridors." His body shudders despite the warmth of the fire filling the room, and he exhales the ice out of his lungs.

"How often do you have nightmares?"

"It used to be every night. Ever since seeing Harry, it started getting less. Four times a week, maybe." He feels exhausted, but he doesn't want to go to sleep. Doesn't dare to. "I think I need him more than he needs me."

"It's okay to need," Lou says with a gentleness in her voice he hasn't heard before. Then again, he hasn't been this honest before during one of their sessions either. "Just don't  _depend_ on him, Sirius. He's still a child."

"I know that," he grumbles, laying the back of his hand over his eyes, not closing them. The cover from the lights is comforting.

"And if you forget?"

"Then I'll have you and Remus to remind me, don't I?" He peeks at her from between his fingers, spotting a slight smile playing on her lips—dare he say it, a genuine one at that. She stands up from the armchair, reaching out her hand to him more in a gesture than an actual signal for him to take it. He's pretty sure she'll actually crush his hand if he does. She isn't a very touchy-feely type of person.

"Come, show me the rest of the house," she says, and he pushes himself off the couch. Anything is better than lingering in the living room and wallowing in self-pity, and if he's going to trust her with the truth, he might as well trust her with the past too. "Where's your old room?"

"Third floor. You don't want to see it; it was a complete pigsty as I recall."

"It can't be that bad."

"I kept my motorcycle in there, you know."

Lou laughs, and this time, the sound has warmth to it. "Somehow, I think I should have expected that."

* * *

Tom doesn't agree with his actions.

His criticism ranges from how strongly Harry has positioned his stance against a well-established societal institution that has been around for centuries, to the very premise of his objections.

It is strange to him how they could have such wildly different points of view, and he doesn't think they'll ever agree. It is perhaps the first time he sees Tom's own confidence in being right—he is unyielding, countering every one of his points with a callous sort of logic, but not in a manner that annoys Harry. He's not arrogant about it, or condescending like say, Malfoy would be.

"You have no solution, yet you take the moral high ground and tell the entire wizarding community that they're wrong and this ought to change," he says two days after his return when they are outside, taking a walk around the fields surrounding the Burrow and reviving the old discussion. "What do you propose? Would you have us set the dementors free, let them roam and choose their victims at random?"

"No, of course not," Harry replies with an irritated look, kicking a rock and watching it roll into a small puddle of water on the side of the road. Ron and Hermione are inside, Harry having given them an excuse of needing to be alone to think over the events at the trial. In a way, it's the truth.

"What then?" Tom says, an eyebrow arched slightly as he waits for an answer. The sunlight acts odd in his presence, as if it's falling around him like a thin blanket instead of being absorbed by his skin, obscuring the lack of colour. "Should we get rid of the dementors?"

"Is that possible?"

Tom stops in his tracks, giving him an incredulous look with his eyes only, the rest of his face blank. "You'd commit genocide because their source of food offends your moral sensibilities?"

Harry rubs the back of his head, getting frustrated at his own lack of a proper response. He just doesn't know. He means well, but that isn't enough. He has to have a plan. "It's not about my ' _moral sensibilities_ ', it's about the innocent people like Sirius that suffer because of this, well, state-condoned torture!"

"Until you know how to solve it, I don't think it's wise to protest it," Tom replies smoothly, resuming his walk by Harry's side. "It will only hurt your credibility. The newspapers are already having a field trip with it—as I recall,  _idealist_ was the kindest word that was used to describe you."

"I don't care what some stupid journalist writes about me," Harry mumbles, shoving his hands inside his pockets with a scowl.

"You should." Tom side-eyes him with a somewhat disapproving look he feels half-inclined to challenge with a glare. "Reputation is everything, and right now, you're seen by the public as an arrogant and clueless child. How can you think to change the old ways when public perception of you is so negative?"

"But the whole thing is just wrong!" he exclaims in frustration. "Anyone can see that it's wrong!"

Tom is quiet for a while, letting him stew in his ire before quietly replying, "Wrong is a very subjective thing, Harry."

"So you're fine with this?" Harry questions him in response. "You think this is okay?"

"And why not? It is the most efficient way to handle the situation." This time it's Harry's turn to stop dead in his tracks, Tom continuing to walk a few steps ahead before he turns around to face him, the very embodiment of cool and collected. "The alternative is to destroy all the dementors altogether, which would be entirely displeasing to your moral code, I'm sure. Or you set them free, at the cost of even more innocents that are being harmed now. Do the math for yourself; save a few by closing Azkaban down, or save a hundred more by keeping it open."

Harry stares at him and feels as if he's really  _seeing_ Tom for the first time. That's all this is to him? A mathematical equation? Tom seems to have no qualms with it, almost pleasantly unconcerned with the ethics of it. He makes sense, but it's such a detached way of thinking Harry doesn't know what to do with it, what to think of it.

"Why can't we save everyone? Why does it have to—"

"You can never save everyone," Tom cuts him off, and the sunlight turns as cold as his voice. Harry suppresses a shiver, catching Tom's eyes and for a moment forgetting that everything else exists. "To save one person means not to save another. Sacrifices are a part of life; I thought you of all people would understand that."

He struggles with his words for a moment, looking away and crossing his arms, the air chilly. "That's not good enough." It can't be a choice based on pure calculus; you can't determine the worth of human lives as if you're putting weights on a scale. Of course the world can't be perfect and there's always someone that will suffer as a consequence, but Harry refuses to believe they can't do better than  _this_.

"Oh?" Tom seems amused now, doing nothing to calm his incensed friend down. "Genocide it is, then? Though I suppose it wouldn't be such a drastic change. As far as we know, dementors contribute nothing to their environment nor have any impact on it. Even leeches have their benefits, but dementors…" The brilliant young man turns contemplative, his eyes drifting off to the ground. "They seem to exist solely to feed off humans. I am surprised no one has attempted to eradicate them sooner."

"Is it even possible to kill one?" Harry asks hesitantly. The way Tom puts it, it doesn't seem like it would matter if they got rid of them all. He isn't sure about it, though. Can dementors even feel? Are they even intelligent, for that matter? Would it make a difference if they were destroyed?

Tom looks up to him, intensity in his eyes as if he's attempting to dissect Harry by his gaze alone. The few seconds of wordless eye-contact makes him feel uneasy. He's used to being stared at, but to be the focus of Tom's attention is something entirely different. He feels completely naked under his gaze. "So you  _are_ considering it."

Harry looks away, feeling tense and awkward and unsure of himself, of Tom's renewed intrigue. He feels a blush creeping up his neck, spreading to his cheeks and ears. "I don't know. I have no idea how dementors even work, if it's… if it would be like killing another person."

"Doubtful," Tom murmurs thoughtfully, mercifully diverting his sight to their surroundings. "Dementors can follow basic orders, but I'd liken their intelligence more to that of a dog than a human being. Their primary and sole purpose for existence seems to be to feed." Perhaps he notices Harry's persisting discomfort on the subject, because he goes on to elaborate. "Farmers are allowed to kill wolves that prey on their sheep, are they not? It is not an exact comparison, but the thought behind it is the same. Dementors are a threat and their existence offers no benefits. Though I think I'd much rather keep them around, if only for academic purposes."

"Academic purposes?"

"Don't tell me you've never wondered how they are able to suck one's soul out of their body with just their mouths?" Tom says, looking up to the sky where dark clouds are gathering overhead. "Only the most complicated and ancient magic would be able to recreate the effect, and yet dementors do it as part of their nature. It would be a waste to murder them all without studying them at the very least."

Harry blinks, frowning slightly. "Er, no, I've never wondered that. I still don't, actually."

Tom hums, but doesn't continue the discussion further. Harry isn't entirely sure what this talk between them has resulted in, but at least now he has a possible answer to the problem of Azkaban, though he'll have to think on it further. He'll have to read up a whole lot more on dementors before deciding, in any case.

The subject changes as Tom inquires to Harry's plans for the next few weeks. He already went looking to an apartment with Sirius yesterday, his godfather seeming to be intent on buying that one. It is a large penthouse, having several extra floors magically built in with a grand view of London, giant windows looking over the skyline. It's an especially beautiful sight during the evening, with the lights of the city making it seem a lot livelier than during the day. It's also easily the most modern house Harry has ever seen—Sirius enjoys the extravagances that muggles have invented. You'll be hard-pressed to find any wizard owning a penthouse _that_  luxurious.

Tom is decidedly put off at the notion of them having muggle neighbours on the lower floors, but then again, Tom was never particularly fond of muggles in the first place. Harry doesn't think much of it; from what he guesses, Tom's childhood at the muggle orphanage probably has a lot to do with it. It's a topic he'd like to know more about, but Tom never seems interested in discussing it with him.

Eventually the sun is on its way down and Harry retreats inside. For the first time, the Burrow isn't such a blessing; with so many people in one house, it's difficult to get a moment to himself (and with a moment to himself, he means a moment to himself  _and_ Tom). Harry has yet to figure out what feels different about their relationship now, but what he knows is that somehow he's grown fonder of Tom in the last few weeks. It feels like a different kind of fondness, one he can't remember ever feeling before, but the effect is very mild and so he can ignore it for the most part, sparing no thoughts on it.

Certainly, having so few opportunities to be alone with Tom makes him appreciate the moments they do have all the more. It would be a lot easier if he could just tell Ron and Hermione, but as always, Tom won't have it ( _'And then he calls me stubborn,'_ has become a regular thought of his).

The days fly by in spite of it, and before he knows it, Sirius has moved into his new apartment, finalising the process of getting back custody of Harry while the day of the Quidditch World Cup Finals draws closer.

And then Peter Pettigrew escapes, and the dream is shattered.

* * *

"I don't understand how he could've possibly—" Hermione goes into a rant, the Mystery of Pettigrew's Escape having occupied her for the past few days now. Harry is tired of hearing it. He already knows that the Ministry has balanced a fine line between incompetence and pure evil, so in honesty, he shouldn't even be surprised that the rat has managed to slip away.

Sirius hasn't been taking the news so well. For one, he practically stormed the Auror Office yesterday and demanded they go do something about it ("How about you get off your arses and track this bastard down?" were his exact words, in fairness). Harry feels he should be as outraged as his godfather, but then again, he never wanted Wormtail to go to Azkaban in the first place, though having the man escape was far from the desired outcome.

There's nothing he can do about it anyway, so he figures it's better to focus on the positive instead of silently (or not so silently, in Sirius' case) fuming about it. It's not the most productive thing to do, and he's certain Wormtail will turn up eventually now that everyone knows of him being an animagus. Everyone else reassures him of that as well—either way, he refuses this to ruin the outing to the Finals, as Sirius promised to take him there, though it is still a few days away.

No one really knows how Wormtail slipped away. He definitely had outside help, and it happened the moment he was to be transferred to the care of the dementors as he'd been (predictably) given a life-sentence in Azkaban. Apparently, at the location of the transfer, someone made it past not only the magical wards but the several Aurors stationed there, conjuring a Patronus to throw off the dementors and single-handedly overwhelming the guards long enough to escape with Wormtail and disappear. The identity of the attacker remains anonymous.

"Are you sure about this, Harry?" Hermione asks him as he prepares to move all his stuff from the Burrow to Sirius' penthouse, the morning sun shining brightly through the windows. "With Wormtail now having escaped… I don't know, it's not that I don't trust Sirius, but he's…"

"I know." Harry shoves the last item, a pair of old socks, into the trunk and shuts it with a loud  _click_. "It'll be fine, it has wards all over the place; Dumbledore put them there himself."

"He did?" Ron whistles, impressed. "Well, you're all set to go then, aren't you?"

"That does make me feel a bit better, but Harry, Dumbledore isn't infallible, every ward has a weakness and, and… oh, just be careful!" She hugs him tight, her hair brushing against his face while Ron dramatically rolls his eyes, mock-gagging at the scene and making Harry grin.

His best friend helps him carry his trunk down the stairs to the ground floor where Sirius is waiting for him. Harry wonders why the man looks so tense, until he sees Mrs. Weasley there as well, lips pursed and arms folded across her chest. Whenever those two get together, they tend to end up in some sort of argument, most of them concerning Harry. It's all well-meant, but sometimes he tires of it.

A face he hasn't been expecting is there as well. Remus lingers near the doorway, watching Sirius with a frown that then disappears when he notices Harry, being the first to do so.

"There you are," his old Professor says with a smile, moving to take his trunk from him. "Excellent timing—had you been a moment later these two might have started a brawl," he mutters when leaning in to take the trunk's handle and Harry barely suppresses a laugh as a moment later Mrs. Weasley turns to him.

"Oh, Harry dear," she sighs in apparent melancholy, hugging him even tighter than Hermione had. "Leaving so soon! Well, you'll always be welcome here, you need only ask—"

"What he  _needs_ is to get going," Sirius interrupts coolly, greeting Harry with a casual pat on the shoulder, his hand staying there. Mrs. Weasley's eyes narrow but his godfather pretends not to have noticed, focusing his attention on Harry instead. "How've you been, Harry?"

"Good," Harry replies lamely, glancing from one parental figure to the other and sharing a look with Remus who seems to be feeling about as uneasy as Harry looks, shifting his weight around and fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.

"Ron, Hermione." The two are standing next to each other near the stairs, awkward due to the tension in the air. "Said your goodbyes?"

"Uh, yeah, but we'll be seeing you guys again at the Cup Finals, right?" Ron asks hesitantly, nervously glancing at his mother.

"Of course, wouldn't want to miss it for the world," Sirius replies with an easy grin, shoulders relaxing slightly. The time comes that they leave, and Harry is guided out the Burrow with Sirius next to him and Remus in front of him. He turns around to wave at his friends and really, his family, one more time before continuing the walk down the narrow, muddy path in between the large fields.

They slow down a bit and come to a halt when the Burrow is quite a distance away, and Remus and Sirius revive some sort of discussion they'd been having before they'd arrived. Harry had been wondering why they hadn't already Apparated to the penthouse, and he finds his answer.

"I appreciate the offer from before, Sirius, but—"

"No buts," Sirius cuts him off, appearing annoyed. "First you spend weeks babysitting me, and now you can't wait to get rid of me, is that it? I'm hurt, honestly, this is going to be just another thing on a long list of things I'll need therapy for."

The sarcasm does nothing to help. Remus' frown only thickens. "The press is already hounding you for an interview—"

" _Hounding me_! Remus, was that a pun? You know I hate puns."

"—especially now with you regaining custody of Harry. Adding a werewolf to the mix would just make things worse."

Sirius' mocking look dissolves, an almost angry expression overtaking his face. "Damn it, don't define yourself as a  _werewolf_! You're Moony first and foremost, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let my friend sleep in that miserable shack you call a house. The  _Daily Prophet_ doesn't scare me."

Remus is silent, looking almost pained with his gaze fixed to the ground. Harry figures it's definitely not pride that keeps him from accepting—he really doesn't want to be a burden to someone. When he glances at Harry, the assumption is confirmed and the boy can't help but speak, chest tight with sympathy. He knows exactly how his former teacher feels.

"It wouldn't bother me at all," he says a bit clumsily, putting his emotions into words still difficult for him. "It sounds like a great idea, actually. I can't raise Sirius all on my own, he's a handful." He smirks, and considers it a victory when it is returned with a humorous, albeit faint, smile.

"Oh, so  _you're_ the parent now?" Sirius ruffles his hair. "I guess you'll be paying all the bills?"

"I didn't agree to that," Harry retorts wryly.

"And cooking all the meals?"

"You wouldn't want that. I'm a terrible cook. I'd probably poison you."

"Ha! I don't doubt that. I know how bad you are with Potions."

The light-hearted atmosphere is probably what does it for Remus. Even if the need to be independent is strong, the need for companionship is always going to be stronger. With a sigh, he gives in, and his moving into the penthouse is decided.

Harry really meant his joke about raising Sirius, anyway. Part of him is still unsure about how the man is faring emotionally, and if he were to have an outburst in the penthouse with just the two of them, Harry wouldn't have a clue about what to do or how to calm him down. Remus would know how to handle it—it's a mutually beneficial arrangement, really.

They Apparate to the lower floors of the penthouse as it has an anti-Apparition charm in it. They get weird looks when joined in the lift by other people—Remus and Sirius' style of fashion isn't exactly what muggles are used to seeing.

In the uppermost floor, from standing in the corridor you would never imagine the penthouse to be altered by magic. It is only when stepping inside and seeing the stairs circling up in an elegant, metal spiral staircase to the second, third and fourth floors that one would notice that it should be impossible for all that space to fit in a single level of an apartment building.

The penthouse itself is very clean and crisp, the colour schemes light, the furniture all keeping a very modern style to it with soft shapes and expensive fabrics. The living room, dining room, bathroom and kitchen are all very modern, but the bedrooms are far more old-fashioned, mainly because of the magical items inside of them. Moving pictures and posters, ancient-looking books, writing desks with self-writing quills, cages for owls, brooms—it's like two different worlds in a single house.

Harry explored the place the first time they were there, and as this is his second time, he gets to pick his bedroom. He decides for the one on the second floor at the end of the hallway, that has a more open view on the streets down below instead of buildings. He likes to be able to watch the cars that pass by and the people walking; it adds a feeling of liveliness to the place.

Sirius picks his bedroom on the third floor, Remus' ending up somewhere across from him, as the second floor contains only a single bedroom with a very large study taking up the rest of the space as well as a spacious bathroom Harry now will have all for himself. It'll take a while to get used to, the double-bed and the huge curtain-less windows and just… all this  _space_. All for himself. He's at a loss of what to do with it.

At least he'll have plenty of privacy here, should he need it.

* * *

Being dragged to shopping for clothes isn't exactly what he had in mind when he moved into the penthouse. It wasn't even on Sirius' insistence—Remus had noticed all by himself that Harry was still wearing the discarded, second-hand clothing of his cousin, and made Sirius take him out to the city.

As far as the Dursleys are concerned, he'll never see them again, and surprisingly, he's entirely apathetic with that knowledge. There's no sadness or happiness, just acknowledgement.

When it comes to buying clothes, on the other hand, there's definitely some sadness involved there, though it is mostly self-pity. Sirius took him to muggle stores, but Harry doesn't have the faintest clue of what to buy when faced with so many options. It almost dazzles him.

Tom accompanies him as well, and he's no help at all. He's far too amused with watching an overly enthusiastic female employee saddle Harry with a mountain of clothes, most of which he doesn't even  _like_.

The suit vests with ties are definitely the worst. Harry doesn't have the confidence to pull it off, not to mention that he doesn't like how tight it feels around the waist and he gets into trouble with the first tie he attempts to put on.

Standing in his little changing stall, he glares into the mirror as he tries to make the tie look like… well, what a tie should look like. The thing is, he has no idea how to fix it. It has turned into looking like a tie that's attempting to pass off as a bow tie, and he hasn't a clue how he managed to do  _that_. Sirius' suggestions haven't been much better (ripped jeans and tees with obscure band names on them?) but the ties are really starting to tick him off and he curses the saleswoman and her persuasive smile

In the midst of his tie-related frustration, wishing he could use magic to solve this mess, he doesn't notice the curtain sliding open until he hears Tom breathe a chuckle.

"I was wondering what was taking you so long." Harry is certain he just broke a personal record for how fast his face turns red as Tom closes the curtain behind him. "The dreaded tie, is it?"

"What are you—" He nearly trips over his heels with how fast he back against the wall, "—doing here?" He hasn't even buttoned up his shirt yet, for Merlin's sake!

Tom doesn't look at all concerned with the breach of privacy, nor bothered with the tiny amount of space in the stall that nearly presses them together. "Be quiet," he says evenly, eyes fixed on the mess that is Harry's shirt and tie.

Spindly fingers reach down to the buttons of said white dress shirt, making short work of it.

While Tom is entirely unperturbed, Harry feels like the world just turned upside down and he's hanging on the edge of it.

The proximity is almost suffocating. Every time pale fingertips brush over Harry's skin, he feels himself tense up more and more, and he's certain he's already stopped breathing. Tom merely looks focused on the task at hand, unaffected and oblivious.

How is he so composed? Or rather, why is Harry so unsettled? The situation might be a little weird, but it's nothing to get worked up over. Tom simply became impatient or bored and decided to help him out with dressing. It's not like he's zipping up his pants for him, right?

Harry's train of thought crashes into a mountain at that image and the scattered pieces of wreckage burn in his mental landscape.

"Now pay attention," Tom speaks softly and Harry's heart flutters, beating loudly against his chest.

He can hardly concentrate on the hands fixing up his tie for him, for multiple reasons. The first is that Tom is standing far too close for comfort and it's hard to look at anything but his face at this point, and somehow, he's even more handsome up-close. The second is that he can feel Tom's breath brush against his forehead and it's making his brain melt. The third is that he doesn't really care about the stupid tie in the first place and is more concerned about his ridiculous reaction at a situation that should be meaningless.

What is wrong with him?

"All done," Tom murmurs with a satisfied curve of lips that could've killed him, pulling away his hands and slipping out of the stall with the slyness of a cat.

He's alone now, suit vest and tie immaculate, leaning against the wall in a tiny stall, sweating, dizzy, hot, confused, frustrated, even more confused, heartbeat pounding, pants too tight for comfort, totally definitely completely confused, and absolutely lost.

Right then and there, Harry enters his first pubescent crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note that the hogwarts uniforms here are a _mostly_ based off of the ones described in the books: plain black robes with house colors/crests, under which students only wear their underwear. it's not the very american-esque school uniforms you see in the movies, hence why harry has no idea how to actually fix a tie lmao


	12. Chapter 12

_There are distorted images, words filtering through the haze together with the faint light of a dimly lit room streaming into the dark corridor from where he watches. He can't make sense of it._

" _I could use another wizard," a cold voice speaks softly, "that is true."_

" _My Lord, it makes sense," a voice less cold and more high-pitched, more familiar, replies in evident relief. "Laying hands on Harry Potter would be so difficult, he's so well protected—"_

_Voldemort. Wormtail. Harry Potter._

_The ache in his head makes it hard to concentrate; the conversation does not wait for him, and he misses large chunks of it._

" _My Lord! I-I have no wish to leave you, none at all—"_

" _Do not lie to me! I can always tell, Wormtail! You are regretting that you ever returned to me. I revolt you. I see you flinch when you look at me, feel you shudder when you touch me..."_

" _No! My devotion to Your Lordship—"_

" _Your devotion is nothing more than cowardice. You would not be here if you had not been saved from Azkaban."_

_Azkaban. The trial. Dementors._ _**Wormtail** _ **.**

" _One more murder...my faithful servant at Hogwarts...Harry Potter is as good as mine, Wormtail. It is decided. There will be no more argument. But quiet...I think I hear Nagini..."_

_What does all of this mean? What is—_

* * *

Harry awakens with a start, lying flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had been running. He just snapped out of a vivid dream with his hands pressed over his face. The old scar on his forehead is burning beneath his fingers as though someone just pressed a white-hot wire to his skin. This is the fourth time this month that he found it aching, but it had never been due to such a peculiar nightmare. The strangest thing about it, is perhaps the feeling that it doesn't belong to him. He's not sure what this means, but it's irritating to think about.

He sits up, one hand still on his scar, the other hand reaching out in the darkness for his glasses, which he finds on the bedside table in his spacious penthouse bedroom. He puts them on and his bedroom comes into clearer focus, lit by a faint, golden orange light that was filtering through the newly-added curtains from the lights outside the window.

Harry runs his fingers over the scar again. It's still painful. He turns on the lamp beside him, scrambles out of bed, crosses the room, opens his wardrobe, and peers into the mirror on the inside of the door.

Examining the lightning-bolt scar more closely, it looks to be normal though it's still stinging. Should he be worried? It never hurt like this before—well, except the time during the first year, during his confrontation with Voldemort.

' _You've got to be kidding me,'_ he thinks, touching the scar again, brows furrowed deeply. If it's acting up again, does that mean… Voldemort was never actually killed, so if…  _if_ ….

An icy cold feeling slithers down his spine, a faint sense of panic overtaking his still sleep-dazed mind. With his heart still keeping up its rapid beat from the confusing nightmare, perhaps even starting to pound a little bit faster, he spins around and intends to wake someone up when he nearly runs nose-first into a solid chest, covered by old Slytherin robes.

"Something wrong, Harry?" Tom looks at him curiously, his countenance tranquil as always, and Harry nearly trips backwards into his wardrobe, managing to steady himself just barely by grabbing onto the edges of the wood.

Whenever he has these nightmares, Tom is always there. As if he can sense it. Harry often wonders if it has anything to do with the bond they created through magic last year, but is reluctant to ask. The thought is discomforting. If Tom can sense his dreams, what else can he sense? Maybe it's better not to know.

"Merlin's beard, Tom," he breathes, feeling his skin heat up red. "I told you to stop doing that!"

"My apologies, did I startle you?" his friend replies without any remorse but full amusement in his voice as Harry walks around him to the corridor, shuffling towards the bathroom.

Even as he closes the door behind him, he's acutely aware of Tom's presence lingering just outside, the wall between them making little difference. He knows he's been acting really weird, lately—namely nervous and clumsy around the indifferent Slytherin, who  _somehow_ doesn't seem to notice it at all.

Harry doesn't have any experience in this sort of thing, but he's not stupid. It's obvious that something major has changed between them lately, and it's made apparent in all the most embarrassing ways.

Sometimes when they make eye-contact, his heart skips a beat and he feels like a shot of adrenaline is injected straight into his chest. He's been blushing so easily lately that Remus got concerned that he might've been developing a fever, and it gets even worse when Tom smiles at him—his legs will turn into spaghetti and he'll completely forget about whatever he'd been doing before. Once he even tripped over his own feet when Tom touched his shoulder. Just  _touched his shoulder_. He finally got an explanation for this new and obnoxious development from none other than his godfather.

Sirius is more observant than people give him credit for. He noticed Harry's… er,  _distracted_ behaviour as of late, and was so blunt to directly ask him, "So, who's the girl?" After a lot of sputtering, denial, and a misspoken "he" on Harry's part, Sirius merely raised his eyebrows and asked, "Then who's the boy?"

It was a stroke of luck that Tom had been upstairs in the library at the time, reading a book.

By the time Remus intervened ("Cut him some slack, Sirius. You're going to end up giving the poor boy an aneurysm.") Harry felt like sinking through the floor. When Sirius then attempted to give him  _the talk_ ("It's alright, Harry. See, when one person meets someone else they really like at your age, the hormones start acting up and, well, you know what happens next. What? You don't? Has no one told you about sex before?") Harry was ready to suffocate himself with the couch cushions, much to Sirius' amusement.

Harry knows that Tom has damned well picked up on his odd behaviour by now which is getting worse by the day, but for some reason, he neglects to comment on it. Harry himself isn't exactly going to bring it up, either; what's he supposed to say?  _Hey, Tom, I have this massive crush on you that just came out of nowhere because hormones, can we still be friends?_

Yeah, that would go over well.

It is relieving that Tom hasn't been treating him any differently, though. Harry wouldn't know what he'd do if Tom was, well, grossed out by it, or decided to demand some answers from him. Thinking about it, the latter option is more likely; Tom would definitely try to pick apart the reasons and causes for Harry's sudden love-struck state in the type of clinical manner that would suck all the romance out of, er, romance.

He puts his glasses aside on the corner of the sink, and splashes water in his face to wake himself up before he starts brushing his teeth. At first he thought his feelings were just a really bad case of hero-worship, but Harry's not one to lie to himself (not for long, anyway) and soon it became pretty obvious how far this really reached, courtesy of Sirius.

You don't sit around and just 'platonically' admire how handsome your best friend is for several minutes on end, do you? It's not normal friend-like behaviour. Harry was never really taught or told anything about falling in love. He assumed he'd just get a crush on a girl, or something, since the other boys in his Gryffindor dorm sometimes talked about that. But apparently not. Apparently he fancies a boy now. He's not sure what to think about that. It just is, he supposes. Sirius didn't make a big deal out of it, so it's probably normal.

Furthermore, the both of them being boys is far from the main issue here. The main issue is probably that Tom is, well,  _the soul fragment of another person_. Much bigger stumbling block, yeah? Not to mention that it seems rather unlikely that Tom would feel the same way about him in the first place. After all, Tom is extremely handsome, intelligent, charming in practically every way, and Harry is just… Harry.

He'll just have to suffer through it. If it's just a crush, it'll pass on its own. Probably. Hopefully. Maybe.

Oh, who's he kidding? He's at the point where he might even consider praying to Merlin's knickers if that means that everything will go back to normal.

When Harry comes out of the bathroom, he sees Tom lingering near the spiral staircase, looking down at something. Harry approaches him, standing next to him and following his gaze, only then picking up on the voices.

"Sit still, would you?"

"Sirius," Remus sighs, and Harry can see his lower half, sitting on a chair in front of the windows, though Sirius is out of his visual range. "When Alouette told you to get a hobby, she didn't mean you should throw yourself at every therapeutic cliche out there."

"Oh sod off, Remus," Sirius grumbles back. "Maybe I genuinely  _like_ painting?"

"Three days ago you 'genuinely liked' playing on the piano."

"Well, that was—"

"And a week before that, you were into writing a journal. Remind me of how many pages you have written?"

A brief silence. "Would you just shut up?! I can't complete this masterpiece with my muse talking my ears off!"

"Oh, that's right. It was  _zero_. Zero pages."

"I actually was going to paint you very handsomely, but now I think I shall give you a giant nose."

"I could be sleeping," Remus laments dreamily. "I could be in my bed right now, reading a good book—"

"And big, ugly warts. All over your face."

Harry grins widely, heading down the stairs. "Morning, kids."

Remus, enveloped by the early morning sunrise looks up at him and smiles brightly. His former teacher looks much better ever since he came to live with Harry and Sirius. He looks healthier, his ragged clothes have been replaced by proper attire, and though the full moon still exhausts him, it doesn't take as much of a toll on him as it used to. He just seems happier as well.

"Good morning, Harry," Sirius calls, and Harry turns around. "Move a bit to the side, would you?" His godfather is hiding behind a large canvas supported on a dark wooden easel. As far as Sirius goes, he's been doing as well as can be. Still having trouble with nightmares, and he can't sleep without a light on somewhere, but he hasn't had any outbursts like the one at the trial.

"I didn't know you were into painting," Harry says as he moves towards the couch, closer to Sirius, trying to lean over and catch a glimpse of what the man is creating. Sirius threatens him by sticking a brush with red paint into his face, the tip of it barely missing his nose.

"No looking until it's finished!" he announces cheerfully.

"Breakfast is on the table, Harry, though it's probably gotten a bit cold by now." Remus informs him, nodding towards the kitchen.

"Ah well, we've got a microwave," Sirius chimes in. "Genius inventions, I swear. The things muggles come up with sometimes, like those macro pizza things, or whatever they're called—"

"Microwave pizza?"

"Yes! Microwave pizza! Brilliant!"

Harry snickers while Remus just sighs, and he heads for the kitchen, glancing at Tom who's silently descending the stairs now, following him. It is the morning of the World Cup Finals, and if not for that, Harry doubts he would've been able to get down a single bite of toast with Tom around.

Sitting down on the long, glass-covered dinner table that's plated with breakfast food and steaming tea ready for him, Harry pointedly tries to ignore dark eyes watching him, and instead goes for the tea. Putting the cup to his lips to take a sip, he glances up just once.

The sunrise glints in Tom's dark eyes, the corners crinkling slightly as he smiles, his lean, tall form leaning against the kitchen counter. Harry forgets to swallow at the charming display and the tea slips out of his mouth as he attempts a clumsy smile back.

"Dammit."  _Stupid idiot_ is the kindest term that passes through his head as his cheeks heat up and he looks down at the hot tea spilled all over his jeans. "Ow."

"You're supposed to swallow when you're drinking, Harry," Tom remarks wryly as Harry tries to clean up the mess with a napkin, though his pants are definitely stained and he'll have to change them. He can't even bring himself to look up at his friend's face, his embarrassment creating an invisible wall between them.

"Right," he mumbles sheepishly, putting the dirty napkin aside and focusing on buttering his toast instead.

"What was your nightmare about?"

Harry blinks at the unexpected question, looking up with a flustered expression. He keeps his voice low, his godfather and Remus arguing in the background, but not chancing it in case they hear him. "Er, pardon?"

"Your nightmare," Tom repeats slowly, a slight furrow between his brows. "What was it about?"

"Oh, um." Harry puts his toast down, feeling his appetite sink away at the memory of it. "I'm not sure. There was a house, and voices, and I heard my name. I think-I think Wormtail was in it." The memory of it is vague, as dreams often are when you try to recall them the morning after, the essence there but the details slipping through his grasp like sand. It is frustrating, but since it was just a nightmare, he doubts it was of any importance.

"I see." Tom considers it for an unusually long amount of time as Harry goes back to his food, taking a bite from his toast and not daring to touch his tea again. "You've been distracted lately."

Why did he have to bring that up  _now_? Just springing it on him like that—what is he supposed to say?

"Excited, I guess," Harry replies lamely. "For the World Cup Finals, I mean."

Tom pulls away from the kitchen counter, the slow tap of his heels resounding through the kitchen as he comes to stand in front of the large windows, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes looking over the view. "I think we both know you're lying."

The toast nearly slips out of Harry's hand and suddenly the room feels hotter than the tea he just spilled on himself, his heartbeat springing into a steady climb. He sees Tom from his peripheral vision, but doesn't dare turn his head for a full view.

"Of course it is up to you to admit the truth, but I would prefer you either outright tell me, or acknowledge that you have a secret to keep." Tom sounds unbothered by it, but there's an edge to his voice that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "I do not like liars, Harry."

"R-right," Should he? Should he just blurt it out, get it off his chest? It seems tempting, for a moment, and it would be so easy to say, such a simple thing to admit. But then he remembers that there is more on the line than just his own relief. This has the potential to destroy everything they've built up so far. "I'd… I'd rather not tell you for now." he mumbles, feeling partly ashamed for denying Tom a straightforward answer. It's the first secret he's had to keep, and he doesn't like it.

"I understand," Tom says smoothly, turning to gaze at Harry over his shoulder, and then, with a slight quirk of lips, he says, "I think I have an idea of what it is, anyway."

Harry's world comes to a complete standstill, and he doesn't notice Sirius walking in seconds later, complaining loudly about a "belligerent muse".

Tom saunters out of the kitchen as if nothing at all is amiss, and Harry is left staring at his half-eaten toast, feeling shell-shocked.

* * *

Harry only half-listens to the explanation Mr. Weasley gives him on portkeys, his thoughts feeling far too jumbled up to make much sense of anything else. After what happened during breakfast, concentrating on anything for longer than five seconds is difficult. Even seeing his friends again (which he  _is_ happy about, especially since they're going on what should be a great trip) doesn't do enough to clear up his thoughts.

His only saving grace is that Tom declined to accompany him, claiming to have no interest in Quidditch and preferring to stay home and read. In truth, Harry has no idea what he meant with having figured out Harry's secret, but the thought of what it  _could_ mean has shaken him. What is he supposed to do, now? Just pretend as if nothing has changed?

' _He's a right git,'_ Harry thinks moodily, kicking a rock as he trails after his godfather. They, together with some of the Weasleys as well as Hermione, are headed for the World Cup Finals, and where usually Harry would've been ecstatic about seeing a professional Quidditch match, it's difficult to care in his current situation.

They trudge down the dark, dank lane toward the village, the silence broken only by their footsteps. The sky is light now as they make their way through the village, its light blue almost appearing icy in spite of the sun. Harry's hands and feet are freezing. Mr. Weasley keeps checking his watch.

They don't have breath to spare for talking as they begin to climb Stoatshead Hill, stumbling occasionally in hidden rabbit holes, slipping on thick black tufts of grass.

Each breath Harry takes is sharp in his chest and his legs are starting to seize up when, at last, his feet finds level ground.

"Whew," Mr. Weasley pants, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his sweater. "Well, we've made good time—we've got ten minutes."

Hermione comes over the crest of the hill last, clutching a stitch in her side.

"Now we just need the Portkey," Mr. Weasley notes, replacing his glasses and squinting around at the ground. "It won't be big… come on…."

They spread out, searching. They have only been at it for a couple of minutes, however, when a shout rents the still air.

"Over here, Arthur! Over here, son, we've got it."

Two tall figures are silhouetted against the bright sky on the other side of the hilltop.

"Amos!" Mr. Weasley says, smiling as he strides over to the man who had shouted. The rest of them follow, though Sirius is too busy telling an amusing story to Fred and George to pay much attention to the newcomers.

Mr. Weasley shakes hands with a ruddy-faced wizard with a scrubby brown beard, who's holding a mouldy-looking old boot in his other hand.

"This is Amos Diggory, everyone," Mr. Weasley introduces the man. "He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Cedric?"

Cedric Diggory—a handsome boy of around seventeen. He's Captain and Seeker of the Hufflepuff House Quidditch team at Hogwarts. Harry remembers him from last year's match, and more specifically, remembers beating him as well and snatching the Quidditch Cup right from under his team. He hadn't managed to get a good look at him then, but gets one now.

He has golden-brown hair, his facial features strong and his complexion smooth, sharp jawline and grey eyes. Something about him reminds Harry strongly of—

' _Knock it off!'_ he scolds himself, shaking his head as if attempting to shake the image of Tom's face out of his mind.

"Hi," Cedric says, looking around at them all, gaze lingering longer on Harry. It makes him wonder if the upperclassman is holding somewhat of a grudge against him after losing, though there's nothing malicious in his gaze.

His greeting is returned by everyone else, making him look away from Harry, a conversation following between Mr. Diggory and Mr. Weasley.

"Long walk, Arthur?" Cedric's father asks.

"Not too bad," Mr. Weasley replies cheerfully. "We live just on the other side of the village there. You?"

"Had to get up at two, didn't we, Ced? I tell you, I'll be glad when he's got his Apparition test. Still, not complaining, Quidditch World Cup, wouldn't miss it for a sacksful of Galleons—and the tickets cost about that. Mind you, looks like I got off easy." Amos Diggory looks at Sirius, who's been silent. "You must be…"

"Yes, yes, Sirius Black, ex-convict, first person to break out of Azkaban, Harry Potter's dashing godfather, etcetera, etcetera," Sirius replies with humour, shaking the man's hand. Harry hasn't really been with Sirius to public places, like going on outings or whatever, but what he hears from Remus is that Sirius is getting the Harry Potter treatment, except with a lot more pity involved that really pisses his godfather off sometimes.

"Right, good to meet you," Amos says with a nod, and then peers good-naturedly around at the three Weasley boys, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny. "All these yours, Arthur?"

"Oh no, only the redheads," Mr. Weasley replies, pointing out his children. "This is Hermione, friend of Ron's, and Harry, another friend—"

"Merlin's beard!" Amos Diggory's eyes widen. "Harry? Harry Potter?"

"Er, yeah," Harry says simply, not taken aback by the reaction. He's used to people looking curiously at him when they meet him, used to the way their eyes move at once to the lightning scar on his forehead, but it always makes him feel uncomfortable.

"Ced's talked about you, of course," Amos Diggory begins,  _Ced_ starting to look as uncomfortable as Harry feels. "Told us all about playing against you last year. I said to him, I said, Ced, that'll be something to tell your grandchildren, that will... you played against Harry Potter!"

Harry can't think of any reply to this, so he remains silent. Fred and George look a bit smug, seeing as how that match resulted into a win for Gryffindor, while Sirius is raising his eyebrows at the boasting. Cedric looks slightly embarrassed, and Harry feels sorry for him.

"My team lost, dad," he mutters, shifting awkwardly on his feet. The similarity Harry's mind has created between him and Tom stops at once—he cannot ever imagine Tom looking so uneasy or out of place.

"Yes, but you did your best, didn't you?" roars Amos genially, slapping his son on his back. "Probably some bad luck, really! I'm sure this year will be different, you have more experience as a Seeker after all." Cedric looks like he wants to protest that, but thinks better of it, instead offering Harry an apologetic look.

"Bad luck?" Sirius snorts, looking entirely unimpressed. "Seems to me like the best man won, or are you saying a bit of  _bad luck_ is all it takes to make your son lose? Can't be that talented then, can he?"

" _Sirius_ ," Harry hisses sharply, now starting to feel even more embarrassed than Cedric as Mr. Diggory looks rather offended, in the midst of sputtering a response. Sirius looks entirely unapologetic.

"Must be nearly time," Mr. Weasley quickly, interrupting the tense atmosphere, pulling out his watch again. "Do you know whether we're waiting for any more, Amos?"

They continue talking, Mr. Diggory easing up a bit as Harry approaches the Hufflepuff Seeker. "Sorry about that," he offers. "Sirius has a big mouth."

Cedric laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. "Don't worry about it. My dad's the same."

"He still shouldn't have said that."

"For the record, I kind of agree with him anyway," Cedric says seriously. "You're a really good flier."

"Thanks." Harry is a bit surprised at the honest admission. "It wasn't an easy win."

"Doesn't mean I'm gonna let it happen again, though." The older boy grins at him, and Harry grins back.

"We'll see about that, Diggory."

It's then that Mr. Weasley alerts them that it's time, at which Harry is a bit confused since he didn't entirely listen to the earlier elaboration on the workings of Portkeys.

"You just need to touch the Portkey, that's all, a finger will do—"

With difficulty, owing to their bulky backpacks, the ten of them crowd around the old boot held out by Amos Diggory.

They all stand there, in a tight circle, as a chill breeze sweeps over the hilltop.

Nobody speaks. It suddenly occurs to Harry how odd this would look if a muggle were to walk up here now; ten people, three of them grown men, clutching this mangy old boot in the semi-darkness, waiting.

"Three…" mutters Mr. Weasley, one eye still on his watch, "two… one…."

It happens immediately: Harry feels as though a hook just behind his navel has been suddenly jerked irresistibly forward. His feet leave the ground; he can feel Ron and Hermione on either side of him, their shoulders banging into his; they are all speeding forward in a howl of wind and swirling color; his forefinger stuck to the boot as though it's pulling him magnetically onward and then—

His feet slam into the ground; Ron staggers into him and he falls over; the Portkey hits the ground near his head with a heavy thud.

Harry looks up. Sirius, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Diggory, and Cedric are still standing, though looking very windswept; everybody else is on the ground.

"Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill," a voice says.

They're met by a man who seems to handle the arrivals from the portkeys, and points them to their camping site which is a quarter of a mile's walk ahead.

Harry ends up walking with Hermione and Ron in the middle of the group. Fred, George, Ginny and Sirius are behind them while Cedric, Mr. Diggory and Mr. Weasley are up front. He feels a bit more clear-headed now, and both of his friends have noticed how quiet he's been for most of the trip.

"Something bothering you, Harry?" Hermione asks first, concern laced in her voice.

"Yeah, sort of."

"Well, out with it, then," Ron says, nudging him slightly with his elbow. Harry's face starts burning up red again as he wonders how to handle it, when Hermione gasps excitedly at the sight. "What? What is it?" Ron asks with a scowl, looking from one to the other.

"Is it a  _girl_?" Hermione whispers almost conspiratorially, leaning in close. Harry immediately shakes his head, and her face drops, looking disappointed. "Oh."

"It's…" He wonders for a second whether to tell them. Only for a second. They are his best friends, and he's been keeping too many secrets from them, lately. He can at least be honest about this. "It's a boy." There's a beat of silence, when Hermione practically squeals, face lighting up again.

" _I knew you had a crush_!"

And then Ron nearly faints.

"You… and… a  _boy_?"

Harry ducks his head, hoping no one else has heard them, but of course that's too much to hope for. A moment later he feels a hand clasp onto his shoulder.

"What's this, Harry?" Fred chimes in.

"Who's the lucky one?" George adds, both twins smirking madly.

"Oh, piss _off_!" Ron complains, attempting to shove his brothers away. "I get to hear it first!" And then he turns to Harry, looking sorely put out. "Why the bloody hell didn't you tell me before, mate?"

"I didn't-I didn't know until now!" Harry hisses back, starting to feel embarrassed at all the attention.

"Who is it?" Hermione interrupts, continuing to prod him for answers. "Is it anyone we know?"

"Is it someone in our dorm?" Ron adds, frowning deeply. "It's not someone in our dorm, is it? Would be rather awkward, that. And I'm pretty sure all of them only like girls, so—"

"Oh, you don't know that for sure," Hermione replies with an air of superiority." _I_ have it on good authority that Seamus Finnigan—"

"Seamus?" Ron makes a face, as if he's been told just to eat a bucket full of raw spinach. "Harry has better taste than  _that_."

"Come on now, Ron," Fred says with a smirk. "Underneath that sheepy-eyed exterior—"

"—Seamus is a real romantic." George finishes, the little brother rolling his eyes and looking back at Hermione, who seems sceptical of his dismissal.

"Well, who did you have in mind then?"

"I'm standing right here, guys," Harry eventually cuts in, having had enough of the silly conversation. Hermione shushes him as if he has no say in his own barely-existent love life, and continues to debate Ron on the best candidates with Fred and George poking fun whenever they can. Harry slips away, increasing his pace and almost bumping face-first into Cedric's back, who's been trailing a bit behind his and Ron's father.

"Sorry," Harry mumbles awkwardly, shifting to walk next to him instead while trying to ignore what's being discussed behind him. Cedric looks amused, trying his best not to grin it seems, and suddenly Harry likes him a lot less.

"You don't look too happy."

He shrugs, wiping away some dirt that has gotten on his glasses. "I wish they'd be less loud about it," he mumbles, glancing back over his shoulder to find that even Sirius has joined the conversation now and is giving a detailed account about the time he confronted Harry about his crush and almost gave him an aneurysm, as Remus put it. Ginny is walking along, and for some reason, she doesn't look very pleased. In fact, her face is a bit pale.

"Just ignore them, the novelty will wear off eventually," Cedric responds easily, hands slipping into the pockets of his jacket. They fall in a companionable silence and Harry is grateful for it, especially when everyone else behind him finally stops poking fun at him. He's sure he'll be interrogated by Hermione eventually, but at least she has the good sense not to continue it with so many other people present.

A few minutes pass and when Mr. Diggory announces that he and Cedric must go another way since their camp site is on another field, the group says goodbye to the two and continues towards their own site. Harry feels more at ease as his attention is focused on the Finals and the lively crowd that has gathered in a mix of green and red, and for a while, all his stress ebbs away and is replaced by excitement.

Naturally, it doesn't last for long.


	13. Chapter 13

_Drip._

Every little noise grates against his skull like nails on a chalkboard. His composure, frail as brittle glass, is on the verge of cracking. It is a miserable state of mind he finds himself in, in the most literal sense of the word. He would've never imagined himself turning into his own greatest tormentor.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Tom clenches his jaw in a flare of irritation, and glares towards the bathroom. He should get up and turn the sink off properly, but to be bothered by such a trivial little sound would be unbecoming.

For some reason, he has become far more sensitive to everything around him lately. Instead of being a mere observer, he now finds himself more affected by his environment, and it is not because he has become more alive in the physical sense—nothing in that area has changed. His powers are as strong as can be while still remaining a Horcrux attached to the diary, though stronger than before now he has absorbed another one.

No, this sensitivity is purely psychological. It is not that he is more alive, but he  _feels_ more alive. More affected. More human. More vulnerable. It is disconcerting, and he has no choice but to conclude it is part of the effects Harry's Horcrux has had on him so far, but there is nothing to be done about it.

_Drip._

This is going to drive him mad.

He ought to—

No, no, no need for something so childish.

It is just water.

He'll simply ignore it.

_**Drip.** _

His fingers tighten their hold on the book in his lap, and he shifts, one leg over the other—three more drips pass, and he switches position. Six more drips pass, and he swears he can measure time just by counting them instead of looking at a clock.

' _You've been so restless lately, dear boy. Is the book not enough distraction?'_

Of course, he couldn't have trusted the faux-Dumbledore in his head to remain quiet for longer than fourteen seconds. Or fourteen drips, to be more accurate. This whole ordeal gives a whole new meaning to the word "Headmaster", he thinks wryly.

' _You've already flipped through all these books on magic. Why not try some of the writing of the great muggle philosophers and authors lined in the shelves? I think you will enjoy reading Niccolo Machiavelli's_ The Prince _especially.'_

"Do not insult my intelligence," he murmurs with a frown. "I've read the book. That's the only reason you know of it. You are  _me_. Now be quiet."

He has become far too accustomed to talking to himself. This isn't natural; in the beginning, he did his best to ignore the voice in his head, but eventually the taunting got a response out of him, and the back-and-forth has gone on ever since. It is madness, but he has passed the stages of anger and denial and now finds himself resigned to it.

' _Is that any way to talk to your Professor?'_ faux-Dumbledore says jauntily, as if it is all in good jest.  _'Oh, humour me, would you—I think I saw a Jane Austen book somewhere on the shelves and I'd like to give it a try.'_

Incensed, Tom shuts his historical book on dragons with a sharp snap. "I am not reading petty romance novels."

' _And why not? I think you'll find_ Pride & Prejudice  _particularly relatable.'_

Tom frowns. "I have never read that book. How do you know of it?"

' _I saw the title on a passing glance. It_ is  _a promising title, isn't it?'_ The cheery tone of the voice is particularly insulting.

He stands up, putting his book aside on the stand next to his armchair and pacing over to the windows, opening one up for some much-needed fresh air. As calming as the library can be, being strikingly traditional in its furnishings compared to the modern decor of the rest of the penthouse, when he is all alone like this, it sometimes comes with a rather suffocating atmosphere.

Harry's teacher, Lupin, has already left the house. At least when that man was around he'd sometimes play a tune on the piano, so that the place would not feel as empty. Now, unfortunately, Tom finds himself alone with his thoughts, which is never a good thing—not lately, anyway.

"If you think it is pride that prevents me from submitting to your whims," Tom sneers derisively, "then you are sorely mistaken."

' _Yet is it not the sole reason you refuse to admit your attachments?'_ faux-Dumbledore questions kindly, and just imagining the benevolent expression that would go together with his words makes Tom's veins pulse hot with anger.

But arguing with this voice, he knows, will lead him nowhere. He has tried as much, silently, even in Harry's company, but the voice will not budge. It is adamant in its being right. Infuriating.

' _Harry certainly seems attached to you, in any case.'_

"It is of no consequence," Tom responds icily, glowering down at the cars passing on the street, the sunlight starting to dim due to the clouds gathering above.

Of course he has noticed; how could he not? It makes no difference in what way Harry views him. Be it a friend, a teacher, or something of a romantic nature—he can take advantage of it all the same. He listened when the boy needed him to, taught him when the boy asked him to, and if his desires have changed into something more intimate, Tom will play his part as he has done for the past one and a half years. Continue this charade until he can be free of it.

' _And what do_ you  _desire, Tom?'_ faux-Dumbledore comments on his train of thought.  _'Or is that of no consequence either?'_

Bemused, Tom turns away from the window, leaning back against the sill instead. "What kind of absurd question is that? It is obvious what I desire—to correct the wrongs that have been made by my other, and set us back on the right path."

' _I do not think that is your desire in the true sense of the word. You may believe it is, but from my perspective, it seems more like it is fuelled by a sense of duty than any real longing. An obligation to yourself. Not a desire.'_

Tom grits his teeth and fumes.

_**DRIP.** _

"What would you know of desire?" he snaps to no one, and heads for the bathroom, turning the tap off properly. "What would either of us know, you foolish man?"

The very concept of _desire_ hasn't even crossed his mind lately. He has been so focused on his goals and ambitions for so long that the word itself has slipped away and floats around, stored in a dictionary inside his head. It conveys no real meaning. It is just a sound. Ordinarily one would think a desire and an ambition are closely intertwined—not for Tom. His ambition is a necessity; his desire is optional.

He's fine with this. Why should he want anything more? This is how it has always been. Motivated by a need for power, a fear of weakness—what part could personal longing possibly play in his life in any beneficial way? Pleasure, in whatever form, is a commodity he has no use for. He has grander goals than the sort of every day gratifications simpletons indulge themselves in. Seeing his plans come to fruition is gratification enough.

' _Perhaps that is the way it used to be,'_ faux-Dumbledore admits.  _'But you have changed, dear boy.'_

"Now you are talking complete nonsense."

' _You enjoy things you never would've spared a thought for before. The early sunrise in the mornings, the scent of tea in the kitchen, the texture of old pages from a book, teasing poor Harry until his ears flush red—'_

"Enough of this!" he demands heatedly, slamming the bathroom door behind him in a sudden loss of temper that shocks him back into a state of calm. He breathes in deep through his nose and counts to ten in an attempt to recompose himself.

Tom shouldn't have lost his temper, but the implications got to him, implications and suggestions supplied by his own mind. Indeed, that is the aspect of it that stings the most; a part of  _him_ is supplying these thoughts, mocking him, tormenting him whenever opportunity arises.

This part of him is certainly not rational, like how the rest of his mind operates. It is driven purely by emotions and feelings he has never known before, never wished to know, and yet there is no escape from it. He has no choice but to suffer through this, endure in the hopes of it fading on its own volition, even if that prospect is, he knows, highly improbable. The voice grows stronger by the day, rooting doubt and chaos into his head that interferes with his otherwise cold and calculating perspective. How will he survive this?

He brushes a hand through his hair even though he knows it will get dishevelled, and sighs, as if exhaling all the frustration out of his lungs. There is nothing to be done, he knows that. Quieter now, much wearier than before, he says, "Enough. I shall hear no more."

For once, faux-Dumbledore obliges.

* * *

It seems that from now on Harry should always expect trouble and keep his hopes low in regards to summer. Every year the season has been either utterly boring or miserable altogether; even this time, where it started out like a dream with him being reunited with his godfather, moving out of the Dursley residence and being invited to the Quidditch World Cup Finals, fate struck his good spirits down.

Well, maybe fate is taking it a little too far, but this blatant attack on such a public event is nothing short of mind-boggling. Harry doesn't feel nearly enough fright at seeing the Death Eaters march as he should. In fact, he's much angrier than he is shocked.

More wizards join the marching group, laughing and pointing up at the floating bodies. Tents crumple and fall as the marching crowd swells. Once or twice Harry sees one of the marchers blast a tent out of his way with his wand. Several catch fire. The screaming grows louder, like an increasing cacophony of cheery songs from mad men mixed with the cries of the innocent.

The floating people are suddenly illuminated as they pass over a burning tent and Harry recognises one of them: Mr. Roberts, the campsite manager. The other three look as though they might be his wife and children. One of the marchers below flips Mrs. Roberts upside down with his wand; her nightdress falls down to reveal voluminous drawers and she struggles to cover herself up as the crowd below her screeches and hoots with glee.

Harry's stomach churns and he feels he should do something,  _anything_ , but there are so many of them that even his courage can't win it from his common sense this time. Not to mention that he is The Boy Who Lived—it's doubtful that they'd his friends and him go unscathed.

"That's sick," Ron mutters, his face in partial disbelief and disgust, watching the smallest muggle child who had begun to spin like a top sixty feet above the ground, his head flopping limply from side to side. "That is really sick."

Hermione and Ginny come hurrying toward them, pulling coats over their nightdresses, with Mr. Weasley and Sirius right behind them. At the same moment, Bill, Charlie, and Percy emerge from the boys' tent, fully dressed, with their sleeves rolled up and their wands out. Harry and his company met up with them earlier during the Finals, when the atmosphere was still festive.

"We're going to help the Ministry!" Sirius shouts over all the noise, rolling up his own sleeves. "You lot—get into the woods, and stick together. We'll come and find you later!"

Bill, Charlie, and Percy are already sprinting away toward the oncoming marchers; Mr. Weasley and Sirius tear after them. Ministry wizards are dashing from every direction toward the source of the trouble. The crowd beneath the Roberts family comes ever closer.

"C'mon," Fred says, grabbing Ginny's hand and starting to pull her toward the woods.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and George follow. They all look back as they reach the trees. The crowd beneath the Roberts family is larger than before; they can see the Ministry wizards trying to get through it to the hooded wizards in the centre, but they're having great difficulty. It looks as though they are scared to perform any spell that might make the Roberts family fall.

' _If Tom were here,'_ Harry can't help but think anxiously,  _'he would've known what to do, how to help them.'_

The coloured lanterns that lit the path to the stadium have been extinguished. Dark figures are blundering through the trees; children are crying; anxious shouts and panicked voices are reverberating around them in the cold night air. Harry feels himself being pushed hither and thither by people whose faces he cannot see. Then he hears Ron yell with pain.

"What happened?" Hermione says anxiously, stopping so abruptly that Harry walks into her. "Ron, where are you? Oh this is stupid— _lumos_!"

She illuminates her wand and directs its narrow beam across the path. Ron is lying sprawled on the ground, face contorted into a grim scowl.

"Tripped over a tree root," he replies angrily, getting to his feet again.

"Well, with feet that size, hard not to," taunts a drawling voice from behind them. Harry, Ron, and Hermione turn simultaneously at the familiar tones.

Draco Malfoy stands alone nearby, leaning against a tree, looking utterly relaxed. His arms are folded, and he seems to have been watching the scene of the campsite through a gap in the trees. His expression, however, is more pensive than anything else.

Ron's, not so much. "Why don't you go choke on a—"

" _Language_ , Weasley," Malfoy cuts him off, pale eyes rolling. "Hadn't you better be hurrying along, now? You wouldn't like her spotted, would you?" he says with a nod to Hermione, and at the same moment, a blast like a bomb sounds from the campsite, and a flash of green light momentarily illuminates the trees around them.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione retorts defiantly.

"Granger, they're after muggles, and anyone connected to muggles," Malfoy says, his face serious now. "D'you want to be showing off your knickers in midair? Unpleasant way to end the evening, don't you think?"

A bang booms from the other side of the trees that's louder than anything they've heard. Several people nearby scream, their fleeing becoming even more panicked and hurried. Malfoy arches his eyebrows slightly at the spectacle, looking at Harry.

"Scare easily, don't they?" he says lazily, then turning to Ron. "I suppose your daddy told you all to hide? If this is your idea of hiding, it's not very good."

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Harry is confused, and starting to get impatient with the Slytherin. It seems as if he's genuinely warning them to stay away, but why would he do that? In all likelihood, his father is probably one of the people wearing a Death Eater mask, torturing the muggle family, and yet here Malfoy is, practically shooing them away.

"I was taking a walk. Lovely evening for a walk, don't you agree, Potter?" Malfoy answers wryly, the words dripping with sarcasm. Clearly he has no intentions on answering that question truthfully.

The blond glances away to the right for a moment as a few tents go flying from a curse and sighs exasperatedly. "If you're going to keep hanging around like complete blockheads, that's your business, but if you ever get the brilliant idea to leave, I'd suggest going west." For a whole three seconds Harry almost thinks Malfoy really  _is_ a decent sort, until the sneer that follows. "Keep that big bushy head down, Granger."

"Had to go and ruin it, didn't you?" Harry mutters, and to his slight embarrassment Malfoy hears him, flashing him a grin and shrugging casually.

"Come on," Hermione decides irritably when neither of her friends move, and she pulls Harry and Ron up the path again, leaving Malfoy behind amidst the chaos he is quite safe from, considering who is causing it.

"What was that all about?" Ron questions, looking supremely puzzled at the entire encounter, and Hermione shakes her head, brows furrowed in deep thought.

Harry can't say he's any less flustered by it than his friends are, but he already had a feeling Malfoy was not nearly as bad as he originally thought. Just last year the boy saved him from falling into a horde of dementors—this really shouldn't stun him nearly as much as it does, but then again, Harry hadn't  _seen_ Malfoy save him. To actively witness a good deed from the Slytherin is… well, strange, and surprising. A good sort of surprising, but still.

As they continue on, Fred, George and Ginny are nowhere to be seen, though the path is packed with plenty of other people, all looking nervously over their shoulders toward the commotion back at the campsite. A huddle of teenagers in pyjamas are arguing vociferously a little way along the path. When they see Harry, Ron and Hermione, a girl with thick curly hair turns and speaks quickly, "Où est Madame Maxime? Nous l'avons perdue—"

"Er, what?" Ron replies, blinking twice.

"Oh," The girl who spoke turns her back on him, and as they walk on they distinctly hear her say, "Ogwarts."

"Beauxbatons," Hermione mutters, earning a confused look from Harry.

"Sorry?"

"They must go to Beauxbatons," she clarifies swiftly. "You know, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. I read about it in  _An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe_."

"Right," Harry mumbles lamely, not knowing what else to say to his friend's reading habits. She's practically a walking encyclopedia by now.

"Fred and George can't have gone that far," Ron cuts into the half-dead conversation, pulling out his wand, lighting it like Hermione's, and squinting up the path. Harry digs in the pockets of his jacket for his own wand, but it isn't there. His pockets are empty.

A cold dread settles into his stomach and Harry curses, double-checking, but finding nothing. "Ah, no, I don't believe it, I've lost my bloody wand!" he moans, fighting the urge to slap himself for being so careless. Just imagining the scolding Tom will undoubtedly give him when he hears of this is enough to leave him feeling even  _more_  mortified.

"You're kidding!"

Ron and Hermione raise their wands high enough to spread the narrow beams of light farther on the ground; Harry looks all around him, but his wand is nowhere to be seen.

"Maybe it's back in the tent?" Ron proposes, glancing over his shoulder. They can't turn back now, though. They've already travelled too far.

"Maybe it fell out of your pocket when we were running?" Hermione suggests anxiously.

"Yeah, maybe." He sighs hopelessly. He usually keeps his wand with him at all times in the wizarding world, and finding himself without it in the midst of a scene like this makes him feel incredibly vulnerable. What is he going to do if they stumble on a few wandering Death Eaters? Damn.

A rustling noise nearby make all three of them jump. Winky, Mr. Crouch's new house-elf whom they encountered much earlier in the day, is fighting her way out of a clump of bushes nearby. She's moving in a most peculiar fashion, apparently with great difficulty; it's as though someone invisible is trying to hold her back.

"There is bad wizards about!" she squeaks distractedly as she leans forward and labours to keep running. "People high, high in the air! Winky is getting out of the way!" And she disappears into the trees on the other side of the path, panting and squeaking as she fights the invisible force that's restraining her.

"What's up with her?" Ron questions to no one in particular, looking curiously after Winky. "Why can't she run properly?"

"Bet she didn't ask permission to hide," Harry notes, shaking his head. He thinks of Dobby: every time he tried to do something the Malfoys wouldn't like, the house-elf had been forced to start beating himself up.

"You know, house-elves get a very raw deal!" Hermione begins indignantly. "It's slavery, that's what it is! That Mr. Crouch made her go up to the top of the stadium, and she was terrified, and he's got her bewitched so she can't even run when they start trampling tents! Why doesn't anyone do something about it?"

"Well, the elves are happy, aren't they?" Ron says slowly. "You heard old Winky back at the match,  _'House-elves is not supposed to have fun'_. That's what she likes, being bossed around… right?" Hermione looks outraged and Harry frowns deeply, startled at the words coming out of Ron's mouth. If there's any logic to his friend's words, it escapes him completely—how would house-elves know what they like when all they've ever known is being someone else's servant?

"It's people like you, Ron," Hermione begins hotly, "who prop up rotten and unjust systems, just because they're too lazy to—"

Another loud bang echoes from the edge of the woods.

"Let's just keep moving, shall we?" Ron says, and Harry sees him glance edgily at Hermione. It seems the possible truth of what Malfoy warned them about is sinking in with Ron; Harry was perceptive enough to deduce that on his own. Hermione is not safe.

They set off again, Harry still searching his pockets, even though he knows his wand isn't there, as if hoping against all odds that it will miraculously appear if he just searches one more time. Alas, no such thing happens, and they continue travelling until something very odd happens; they hear a voice, decidedly male, call out an odd spell, and a moment later the clouded sky lights up green with mist formed into a skull and a snake.

The unanimous decision is to get as far away from that spot as possible, but before they can make their escape, they are discovered.

Harry turns—Ron is hurriedly scooping up his miniature Krum—the three of them start across the clearing, but before they have taken a few hurried steps, a series of popping noises announce the arrival of twenty wizards, appearing from thin air, surrounding them.

Harry whirls around, and in an instant, he registers one fact: each of these wizards has his wand out, and every wand is pointing right at himself, Ron, and Hermione.

Without pausing to think, he yells at the top of his lungs, "DUCK!"

He seizes his two friends by the shoulders and pulls them down onto the ground.

" _STUPEFY_!" twenty voices roar in unison—there's a blinding series of flashes and Harry feels the hair on his head ripple as though a powerful wind sweeps through the clearing. Raising his head a fraction of an inch he sees jets of fiery red light flying over them from the wizards' wands, crossing one another, bouncing off tree trunks, rebounding into the darkness—

"Stop!" a familiar voice yells. "STOP!  _That's my godson_!"

Harry's hair stops blowing about. He raises his head a little higher, cautious and slowly, in case the firing starts again. The wizards in front of him have lowered their wands. A firm hand grabs him by his upper arm and helps him up—a wave of relief floods over him when he looks up at Sirius, who looks very grim but calm, while Mr. Weasley next to him looks downright terrified.

"Ron, Harry." His voice sounds shaky, "Hermione—are you all right?"

"Out of the way, Arthur," a cold, curt voice orders.

It's Mr. Crouch. He and the other Ministry wizards are closing in on them. Harry gets to his feet to face them, teeth gritting at the sight of the man responsible for his godfather's jail sentence to Azkaban. Sirius tenses in an instant, jaw clenching tightly. Mr. Crouch's face, similarly, is taut with rage, even twisting his narrow toothbrush moustache, his unnaturally straight grey hair now completely windswept.

"Which of you did it?" he snaps, his sharp eyes darting between them. "Which of you conjured the Dark Mark?"

"Are you mad?" Harry retorts heatedly.

"We didn't do anything!" Ron protests, rubbing his elbow and looking indignantly at his father. "What did you attack us for?"

"Do not lie, sir!" Mr. Crouch shouts. His wand is pointing directly at Ron, and his eyes are nearly popping out of their sockets—he looks slightly mad. "You have been discovered at the scene of the crime!"

"The scene of the crime happened over  _there_ , you—" Hermione slaps a hand over Harry's mouth before any scandalous language can pass his lips, looking nervous while Harry fumes internally.

This complete  _halfwit_ has the nerve to incriminate his friends without even checking who they are! One of them, a Weasley, a muggleborn and Harry Potter, summoning the Dark Mark? Not bloody likely.

"Ignore him," Sirius cuts in coolly, blatantly pushing Mr. Crouch aside and looking to the three of them. "Where was the spell cast?"

"The Dark Mark came from over there," Hermione says shakily, pointing at the place where they heard the voice. "There was someone behind the trees, they shouted words, an incantation of some sort."

"Ah, stood over there, did they?" Mr. Crouch says, briefly glaring at Sirius before turning his popping eyes on Hermione now, disbelief etched all over his face. "Said an incantation, did they? You seem very well informed about how that Mark is summoned, missy—"

If it wasn't for Hermione's hand over his mouth Harry is very certain that the words that are filling his head in regards to this idiot would've made even a sailor blush at this point. Hermione gives him a pointed look as she ignores Mr. Crouch's raving for a moment, and carefully pulls her hand away. Harry concedes, sighing in frustration, but holding his tongue. Sirius, on the other hand, doesn't.

"Watch your mouth," Sirius growls, shoulders squared and looking as if he's a split-second away from socking the man in the face, Mr. Weasley's hands on his arms being the only things keeping him at bay. "I'll ignore your ranting and raving as it seems you've completely lost your mind, but don't you dare implicate that  _my godson_ or any of his friends could've or would've committed such a crime."

Sirius is not alone; none of the Ministry wizards apart from Mr. Crouch seem to think it remotely likely that Harry, Ron, or Hermione conjured the skull; on the contrary, at Hermione's words, they all raised their wands again and are now pointing in the direction she indicated, squinting through the dark trees.

"We're too late," a witch in a woollen dressing gown says, shaking her head. "They'll have Disapparated."

"I don't think so," a wizard with a scrubby brown beard replies. It's Amos Diggory, Cedric's father, and it makes Harry wonder where Cedric is. Probably fled the commotion, like everyone else. "Our Stunners went right through those trees; there's a good chance we got them."

Unfortunately, there's no one between the trees except for Winky the house-elf.

And of course said house-elf is in possession of Harry's wand, so maybe it  _is_ a fortunate discovery after all. Except for the fact that someone used  _his_ wand of all things to conjure Voldemort's Mark, of course. He would've almost found it funny, if it didn't make him shudder with utter revulsion. Just the thought that one of Voldemort's followers used his wand is rather disgusting.

The house-elf, all things considered, is not so lucky. Mr. Crouch punishes her by releasing her, which at face-value would be a good thing, except the poor house-elf has nowhere to go and has now lost her sole purpose in life.

Mr. Weasley and Sirius take them back to the campsite, where the former explains to his children about the Dark Mark and Death Eaters. Harry has already been privy to this knowledge after Tom urged him during their many lessons to read up on Voldemort, considering it is best to know your enemy as well as you can.

It was a discomforting thought at the time; Harry alone being pitted against Voldemort, as if  _he_ was expected to… to vanquish him, or something. But, he supposes that if Voldemort ever does return, Harry will most likely be his first target. It is not a pleasant thought, but it is better to embrace reality now and be prepared than be caught off-guard later. It's not as if he's expected to fight him in a duel and come out victorious as if it were a heroic fairy tale, right? He's positive that Voldemort will eventually be hunted down by wizards far more skilled than himself.

Well, tomorrow, he'll be back at the penthouse and he can leave this whole ordeal behind him. It is the last and most comforting thought he has before he drifts away in the tent, sleeping soundly inside while outside, the world has been set on fire.

* * *

' _SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP_

_Rumours continue to fly concerning the horrifying event that took place last night during the Quidditch World Cup Finals where Ireland emerged as the champion, though the celebrations of their supporters were unfortunately short-lived._

_In the after-glow of the Finals, the campsite was left with lax security, allowing Dark wizards to take advantage of the occasion by causing chaos as they marched through the campsites, traumatising a family of muggles who hung suspended in the air above them. None of the officials present seemed to have answers for how this could've possibly been allowed to happen, citing that the Dark wizards most likely infiltrated the tournament under the guise of harmless tourists. Many who were present at the event feel that there should've been security checks where there were none at all, enabling the perpetrators to take control of the entire campsite and keep their identities secret under the veneer of terrifying silver masks and dark robes, inspiring fear with their ominous chants._

_If the terrified wizards and witches who waited breathlessly for news at the edge of the wood expected reassurance from the Ministry of Magic, they were sadly disappointed. A Ministry official emerged sometime after the appearance of the Dark Mark alleging that nobody had been hurt, but refusing to give any more information. Whether this statement will be enough to quash the rumours that several bodies were removed from the woods an hour later, remains to be seen._

_Indeed, it is a national disgrace that it was ever allowed to happen. The Dark wizards were running amok last night, striking terror in the hearts of victims and bystanders alike, while the Ministry blunders can be considered nothing short of unforgivable, a great blemish on what should've otherwise been a night of joy and celebration. Perhaps the Ministry will learn from this event and recognise the need for vigilance even in such peaceful times as these.'_

Tom puts the newspaper down, thoroughly displeased.

While the article, written by some vapid journalist called Rita Skeeter, has undoubtedly been embellished as much as possible, the kernel of truth within is irksome enough to set him on edge.

 _These_  imbeciles are his Death Eaters? No doubt they thought it a fun recreational activity, if they were thinking at all, which Tom thinks is rather unlikely. Clearly the loyal group of followers he gathered fifty years ago has been degraded to nothing but savages who have no rhyme nor reason to their actions. Indeed, it would not surprise him to find that they think it perfectly acceptable to turn the entire world against them!

Contrary to popular belief, Tom's initial plan of swaying Britain to his side had very little of sheer dictatorship, and more of persuasion and political pressure. Of course he held and holds no sympathy for the muggles; they are obviously inferior to wizards and witches, why should he care whatever becomes of them? No, he would very much like to erase every trace of their existence from his world, but to go about it with methods of intimidation and force is quite obviously the most idiotic thing anyone could ever go about any sort of plan to dominate a country.

Fifty years ago it started out easy. The wizarding world had been left in shock after witnessing the horrors perpetrated in the muggle Wars of the early 20th century, and public opinion of them had been vastly negative. Swaying people to his cause had been as simple as snapping his fingers. To attack muggles directly, to give people reason to see them as  _victims_ is completely counter-productive. Of course, some violence is inevitable, but to parade their hatred around like this—utter fools, the lot of them.

And what of him? What does such behaviour displayed by his followers say about  _him_? Has Lord Voldemort strayed from his path to such an enormous extent? Is the damage even worse than he'd feared?

Noise from downstairs distracts him from his thoughts, and he sets the newspaper he lowered to his lap aside on a stand next to his chair, standing up at the sound of familiar voices conversing loudly a floor below him.

Tom rises from his seat, heading to the corridor and sliding up to the balcony, standing next to the spiral staircase and peering down. Harry and Black have returned from their trip. Tom is curious to see how this has affected the boy, who glances up at him as he wanders towards the stairs. Lupin and Black are talking animatedly about the event, and Harry excuses himself easily, stating he feels a bit tired and no one thinking it strange.

Harry immediately heads up the stairs, and if Tom had been someone only half observant as himself, that bright smile he's gifted as the boy reaches the landing of the first floor would've given his feelings completely away.

"Hello," Tom greets him easily, fingers lingering on the wooden railing of the balcony.

"Hi," Harry replies softly in case he is heard, seeming to catch himself smiling like an idiot and reeling it back in, blushing faintly.

"You've had quite the tumultuous night." Tom remarks, pretending not to have noticed his awkward behaviour as he strolls back towards the library, Harry following him silently.

"Yeah, it was…" The boy hesitates. "Well, it was terrible, really. I can't believe they'd do something like that and get away with it."

They enter the room and Tom closes the door behind them. When he turns back to Harry he notices the boy has stolen his seat. His mouth twitches briefly in irritation, but his expression smooths itself out instantly.

"The Ministry has always been incompetent," Tom comments instead, venturing towards the shelves in search of something he might read later. His eye catches a novel—' _Pride & Prejudice'_. Jaw clenching, he immediately turns away and walks to the windows instead, making a note to burn that book later. "Am I to understand you had no unfortunate run-ins or accidents during the chaos?"

"Oh, well, um, I lost my wand for a while."

Tom turns sharply, eyebrows raised.

Harry, with some shame, begins telling him the story of how he survived last night, and Tom finds the coincidences in it rather amusing. Fate is playing a cruel game indeed, to have  _Harry's_ wand be the one to summon his mark. For a moment, he recalls the prophecy, thinks very briefly,  _what if_ , but the thought is discarded as soon as it arises.

"You've been very lucky indeed, to avoid being detected by the Death Eaters," Tom says at the end of Harry's story, drifting away from the windows closer to the boy. Harry seems relaxed in his chair, until Tom's fingers press down on his shoulder, at which his head snaps up and his eyes catch Tom's in fluster, neck craning to look up at him.

"Right," he stammers, swallowing thickly.

Tom curves his lips in his most charming smile, and says with a voice of velveteen, "I'm relieved to see you return to me in good health," and squeezes his shoulder lightly.

Harry's lips part slightly, and for a moment Tom wonders if his synapses have short-circuited somehow. The silence stretches on, and even Tom is a bit surprised at the effect he has on Harry, but thinks it time to put him out of his state of shock. "Harry, you'll catch flies if you don't close your mouth."

The boy flushes, blinking as if having just awakened from a dream and looks away, stuttering some excuse while Tom watches on in amusement, pulling his hand away and continuing to slowly walking through the room.

' _Are his ears flushing red yet?'_

Tom tenses, halting momentarily at the voice but rectifying the wrinkle in his composure a moment later, continuing on as if the pause never happened and ignoring the voice.

Faux-Dumbledore sighs wistfully.  _'If you would just admit to the pleasure you get out of teasing poor Harry, my dear boy, you wouldn't have to be feeling so much pent-up stress. It's bad for your blood-pressure, you see.'_

I'm ignoring you. Stop talking to me.

"So, er, how was your day? Yesterday, I mean, unless you want to tell me about today, which-which is fine too, but, I meant, er—"

"You're rambling, Harry." Tom interrupts, keeping his tone carefully kind. "I'm sure none of my activities would be of any interest to you. The new school year is starting in two days, is it not? Are you looking forward to it?"

Harry squirms a bit in his seat as he considers the question, shrugging. "A little, I guess, but I'm not looking forward to the homework."

Tom chuckles, as might be expected of him, not because of any real humour—not that Harry would be able to see through the deception. "Naturally, though I heard there is to be a rather exciting new event this year. The Triwizard Tournament, if I'm not mistaken."

A shame none were held during his time in Hogwarts. He would've undoubtedly won, of course, but another achievement to add to his long list of it could never hurt.

"I guess. I just wish I could've spent more time with Sirius, and, well…" The boy starts fidgeting, ducking his head. "I reckon we, er…"

"We won't have as many opportunities to speak," Tom helpfully finishes for him. "You can always write to me, Harry."

"It's not the same, though."

"I'll grant you that."

"If Hermione and Ron knew about you—" Harry glances at him, and from the cool stare in his eyes he gets the hint. "—I know. You don't think it's wise, I know, though I don't understand  _why_."

Tom does not reply and they fall into a silence, which is rather brief, seeing as how Harry seems to have a lot on his mind that he wants to talk about. Tom has to admit that his clumsy behaviour as of late is a bit irritating, and it is all due to this silly infatuation. Sure, it is far easier to manipulate him  _now_ , but something about it feels disagreeable all the same.

"So, before I left, you said something that I've been wondering about," Harry starts out a bit restlessly, shifting around in the chair. "Something about you knowing what my secret was." he finishes much quieter, avoiding Tom's gaze.

Hmm.

"Yes, I did say that." he confirms pleasantly. "What of it, Harry?"

"What do you think it is?" the boy questions anxiously, his voice unusually small, eyes fixed onto Tom's feet.

Now  _this_ is quality entertainment. Seeing him fumbling around like this might be an almost childish guilty pleasure on his part, but how can he not take advantage of it? Like a shiny new toy, he can't help but play with it. A sly smirk passes on Tom's face right before Harry peeks up at him from behind his glasses, ears flushing red.

' _Ah, there it is!'_

It is a challenge to ignore the voice, but Tom manages it, and instead focuses on the boy, taking slow steps towards him with his hands in the pockets of his trousers until he's standing right in front Harry (who looks as if he wants to sink through the chair in the meantime).

"What fun would a secret be if I gave it away so soon?" Tom speaks softly, reaching out with the tips of his fingers grasping Harry's chin, and he can  _see_ the exact moment the boy's breath hitches because he almost winces from it, bright green eyes wide as they are locked onto him.

A part of him revels in it, in his ability to play Harry like a melody on a harp, plucking the strings effortlessly and making him dance to his tune, to the motions of his fingers.

"I think I shall let you stew in it for a while," Tom continues with the slightest smile, his fingers reaching up and flicking a lock of unruly hair out of Harry's eyes. "That is, until you give your secret away yourself, dear Harry."

It is so simple. The boy would melt to his touch if he so wanted. Tom has him  _completely_ in his grasp. The thought is comforting; if he can keep it this way until he finds Lord Voldemort, the war that is yet to come is as good as won.

' _Is it comforting only for that reason, Tom?'_ faux-Dumbledore questions abruptly, the inquiry echoing loudly between his ears.  _'Or perhaps for another reason entirely? You do not believe in the prophecy, after all. You could do without Harry, and yet you are so intent on staying with him. It is most perplexing for someone who claims to hold no attachments.'_

Black calls Harry from downstairs, and the moment collapses on itself. Tom pulls away his hand, feeling the familiar pulse of anger start thrumming through his veins again, but also something else; the even more intense sting of complete and utter dread.

Even as Harry slips away with his face as red as can be, so obviously frazzled, nearly tripping over himself as he hurries to the door, Tom finds that it is not Harry who is losing his grip.

' _Pride & Prejudice' _bursts into flames.


	14. Chapter 14

"Been dreaming about your boyfriend?" Ron teases on the morning of departure to Hogwarts after Harry has woken up from a particularly vivid nightmare he can't remember.

"Are you ever going to tell us who it is?" Hermione whispers to him in the cab ride to King's Cross station, and Harry looks decidedly out the window, ignoring her prodding.

"Is it a muggle?" Ron inquires cautiously inside their compartment in the Hogwarts Express while Harry pretends not to hear him.

"Um, am I interrupting?" Neville says nervously and they discover he's been standing in the doorway of the compartment, accidentally overhearing the very one-sided conversation on Harry's non-existent date.

"Potter's got a  _muggle_ boyfriend?" Malfoy sneers disgustedly from behind Neville, and his tease is far more malicious than Ron's was that morning.

"It's none of your business! Piss off, Malfoy!"

"Touchy, touchy. I guess I shouldn't have expected anything less. Not that I care, but I'd think even Potter would have more taste than that."

"Just because he might be a muggle—"

Harry's fuse is burned up.

"I do NOT have a boyfriend, muggle or otherwise!"

His exclamation is ignored, news spreads like a wildfire, and by the time they arrive at Hogwarts the entire student body is aware of the rumour on Harry Potter's first flame, courtesy of Draco Malfoy.

When they've entered the castle (soaked, thanks to the storm outside that reflects Harry's current state of mind perfectly) and are seated in the Great Hall, Harry considers the option of drowning himself in his bowl of tomato soup, or perhaps drowning  _Ron_ in it instead.

"I'm sure it'll blow over," Hermione attempts to comfort him and persuade him at the same time while she brushes back her wet locks. "None of us saw Malfoy eavesdropping, you can hardly blame Ron for all of it. Besides, you should be relieved the secret is out now!"

Harry glares across the table at Ron who looks as guilty as he should, and while he is entirely used to being stared at and having people whisper behind his back, having them stare and whisper because of his _very personal life_ feels like a complete violation of his privacy. "The secret isn't 'out', Hermione," he snaps. "There was no secret to begin with!"

"Oh, I don't mean the boyfriend-thing, I mean, well… you know. Your preferences?"

Even though she's talking softly, to those listening in eagerly it is a delightful little confirmation of their presumptions, and Harry discards the idea of drowning anyone in his soup and instead settles on the mental image of throwing his soup into Malfoy's face and all over his robes. How is it anyone's business what his preferences are? Is this sort of thing supposed to be some big secret?

"Can we have this conversation later? You know, when half of Hogwarts isn't listening?" Harry says, glancing angrily over his shoulder to the Hufflepuffs, most of them quickly turning around and pretending they hadn't been doing anything as scandalous as trying to pick up more rumours, save for two rather loud-mouthed girls.

"So it's true?" one of them says with wide, surprised eyes while her friend giggles beside her. They seem not at all hateful about it, and any other time Harry would've just ignored them, but he's been dealing with this type of behaviour the whole day and his patience is done. Before he can deliver a very rude retort to tell them to mind their own damned business, however, someone beats him to the punch. Albeit a lot more politely.

"Come on, guys," Cedric says, sitting nearby and within hearing range, interrupting his own conversation to cut in. "Leave him alone, would you? He's trying to eat."

The girls look appropriately ashamed at that reprimand, and with blushes on their faces apologise to Harry before turning around and talking quietly amongst themselves. Harry is surprised, but grateful at the intervention, but before he can thank the upperclassman for it, he sees Cedric has already gone back to talking and eating amongst his own friends.

Harry turns back to Ron, whose eyebrows are raised. Suggestively.

"Oh, don't be silly," Hermione dismisses her friend's silent implication. "There's rumours that he's dating Cho Chang, you know."

They speak no more of it (though neither Harry or Ron quite know who Cho Chang is, beyond that she's the Seeker for Ravenclaw), Harry noticing that while the rest of the students seem all too glad to discuss the potential identity of his supposed boyfriend (if they aren't jeering amongst themselves about how typical it is that he's "dating a muggle, the blood traitor") his own Housemates, save for Ron and Hermione, are awfully quiet about the topic. Not that he doesn't appreciate the silence, but it is suspect when the rest of the school is all caught up in their gossiping.

The meal continues, though not entirely pleasantly as Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, floats by and chats about how the kitchens were in disarray earlier thanks to Peeves.

"What did he do?" Ron asks curiously as he shovels another spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

"Oh the usual," Nearly Headless Nick replies, shrugging. "Wreaked havoc and mayhem. Pots and pans everywhere. Place swimming in soup. Terrified the house-elves out of their wits—"

Hermione abruptly knocks over her golden goblet, interrupting the conversation. Pumpkin juice spreads steadily over the tablecloth, staining several feet of white linen orange, but she pays it no attention, her eyes wide.

"There are house-elves here?" she says, staring, horror-struck, at Nearly Headless Nick. "Here at Hogwarts?"

"Certainly," the ghost responds, looking surprised at her reaction. "The largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred."

"I've never seen one!"

"Well, they hardly ever leave the kitchen by day, do they?" Nearly Headless Nick elaborates matter-of-factly. "They come out at night to do a bit of cleaning, see to the fires and so on. I mean, you're not supposed to see them, are you? That's the mark of a good house-elf, isn't it, that you don't know it's there?"

Hermione looks entirely unsettled, concern furrowing her brows. "But they get paid? They get holidays, don't they? And-and sick leave, and pensions, and everything?"

Nearly Headless Nick chortles so much that his ruff slips and his head flops off, dangling on the inch or so of ghostly skin and muscle that still attaches it to his neck. Ron makes a noise as if he's choking on his chicken and Harry's nose scrunches up as he pointedly looks away. Never a very appetising sight, that.

"Sick leave and pensions?" the ghosts says in half-laughter, pushing his head back onto his shoulders and securing it once more with his ruff. "House-elves don't want sick leave and pensions!"

Hermione looks down at her hardly touched plate of food, then puts her knife and fork down upon it and pushes it away from her.

"Oh c'mon, 'er-my-knee," Ron blurts, accidentally spraying Harry with bits of mashed potato, to which Harry resists the urge to throw his pumpkin juice in his friend's face. "Oops, sorry, 'arry—" Ron swallows the meal down. "You won't get them sick leave by starving yourself!"

"Slave labour," Hermione mutters, breathing hard through her nose. "That's what made this dinner. Slave labour."

"You sure that's what it is?" Harry questions, frowning lightly at her decided stance. "House-elves aren't humans, so maybe it's just in their nature to help. I mean, you haven't studied house-elves, have you?"

"No, but that doesn't mean that you can use them however you want!  _You_ haven't studied house-elves either, I'm sure!" she answers hotly, but being used to her passionate outbursts, Harry remains calm in his response.

"All I'm saying is that maybe you should take the time to learn more about them before you make a judgement. Maybe it's in their nature, or maybe they don't know any better; I don't know, but you don't either." He has learned to always be informed before deciding his opinion on something. It's one of the things Tom's teaching inadvertently taught him, as the young man  _drilled_ him on how essential it is to know the facts before taking action.

From the stares both Ron and Hermione are giving him, he supposes it really must've had an effect on him.

"You're… you're right, I shouldn't be too hasty," Hermione slowly admits, sighing deeply, and Ron's shocked expression seems like the icing on the cake. Hermione's own surprise, as well as some approval, is still evident as she looks at Harry. "You've really matured the past few weeks, haven't you?"

Harry blinks, feeling a bit uncertain under her (albeit positive) scrutiny. "I have?"

"Well, yeah, mate. You usually let her rant on about whatever it is that's bugging her. Did you take a crash course in  _How To Calm A Hermione Down In Three Sentences_?" Ron jokes, and Harry shrugs, not sure what do with himself after that sort of praise. The conversation moves onto more light-hearted topics, as Hermione reluctantly resumes her meal.

The rain, in the meantime, is still drumming heavily against the high, dark glass. Another clap of thunder shakes the windows, and the stormy ceiling flashes, illuminating the golden plates as the remains of the first course vanish and are replaced, instantly, with puddings. When these delicious treats too have been demolished, and the last crumbs have faded off the plates, leaving them sparkling clean, Albus Dumbledore rises to his feet. The buzz of chatter filling the Hall ceases almost at once, so that only the howling wind and pounding rain is audible.

"So!" Dumbledore begins, smiling around at them all. "Now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices." Harry quickly starts zoning out, glancing up at the candles floating above them near the ceiling and absently wondering how the wax isn't continuously dropping on top of them, but his attention is caught once more when Dumbledore moves to a more relevant subject.

"It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year."

" _What_?" Harry exclaims indignantly. He looks around at Fred and George, his fellow members of the Quidditch team. They're mouthing soundlessly at Dumbledore, apparently too appalled to speak. No Quidditch? What in the bloody—

Dumbledore, pleasantly unconcerned with the complaints, goes on, "This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy, but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts—"

But at that moment, there's a deafening rumble of thunder and the doors of the Great Hall bang open, cutting the Headmaster's speech off.

A man stands in the doorway, leaning upon a long staff, shrouded in a black travelling cloak. Every head in the Great Hall swivels toward the stranger, suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lightning that flashes across the ceiling. He lowers his hood, shakes out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair, then begins to walk toward the teachers' table.

A dull clunk echoes through the Hall on his every step. He reaches the end of the top table, turns right, and limps heavily toward Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning crosses the ceiling, throwing the man's face into sharp relief, and it's a face unlike any Harry has ever seen. It looks as though it has been carved out of weathered wood by someone who had only the vaguest idea of what human faces are supposed to look like, and wasn't very skilled with a chisel. Every inch of skin seems to be scarred. The mouth looks like a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the nose is missing, but it's the man's eyes that make him frightening.

One of them is small, dark, and beady. The other is large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye moves ceaselessly, without blinking, and rolls up, down, and from side to side, quite independently of the normal eye, and then it rolls right over, pointing into the back of the man's head, so that all they see is whiteness.

The stranger reaches Dumbledore. He stretches out a hand that's as badly scarred as his face, and Dumbledore shakes it, muttering words Harry can't hear. He seems to be making some inquiry of the stranger, who shakes his head unsmilingly and replies in an undertone. Dumbledore nods and gestures the man to the empty seat on his right-hand side.

"May I introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?" Dumbledore announces brightly into the silence. "Professor Moody."

It's usual for new staff members to be greeted with applause, but none of the staff or students clapped except Dumbledore and Hagrid, who both put their hands together and applaud, but the sound echoes dismally into the silence, and they stop fairly quickly. Everyone else seems too transfixed by Moody's bizarre appearance to do more than stare at him.

Immediately whispers go around, and Harry catches some of it, about how the man used to be an ex-Auror, also more commonly known as 'Mad-Eye Moody'.

"What happened to him?" Hermione whispers in a horrified sort of curiosity. "What happened to his face?"

"Dunno," Ron whispers back, watching Moody with fascination.

Moody seems totally indifferent to his less-than-warm welcome. Ignoring the jug of pumpkin juice in front of him, he reaches again into his travelling cloak, pulls out a hip flask, and takes a long sip from it. As he lifts his arm to drink, his cloak is pulled a few inches from the ground, and Harry spots several inches of carved wooden leg, ending in a clawed foot. What kind of an injury had ended up giving him a wooden leg? Was it a spell from some criminal, or an accident?

Dumbledore clears his throat.

"As I was saying," he continues, smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom are still gazing transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, "we are to have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."

"You're JOKING!" Fred Weasley cries out loudly.

The tension that filled the Hall ever since Moody's arrival suddenly breaks. Nearly everyone laughs, and Dumbledore chuckles appreciatively.

"I am not joking, Mr. Weasley," he says while Harry is listening with rapt attention. Tom mentioned it a few times before—apparently he overheard Sirius and Remus talking about it, though he never bothered to explain what it actually  _was_ , and Harry often found himself too distracted by the messenger to care about the message at the time.

"Some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely.

"The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities—until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued."

"Death toll?" Hermione murmurs, looking alarmed, but her anxiety does not seem to be shared by the majority of students in the Hall; many of them are whispering excitedly to one another, and Harry himself is far more interested in hearing about the tournament than in worrying about deaths that happened hundreds of years ago.

The Headmaster goes on to explain about the age limit of seventeen, as well as the thousand Galleons of prize money (and the Triwizard Cup) that is on the line. Harry is quite engrossed in the whole thing, though it is more of a detached curiosity since he knows he can't participate anyway. Without the age limit he definitely would've given it a shot. If they're going to suspend Quidditch for this, it had better be good.

"The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!"

Dumbledore sits down again and turns to talk to Mad-Eye Moody. There's a great scraping and banging as all the students get to their feet and swarm towards the double doors into the entrance hall, and up (or down) to their respective common rooms. Fred and George are already scheming on how to cheat the age limit, theorising there must be some sort of impartial judge that decides who gets to participate, and both Harry and Ron are interested in knowing their plans if not partaking in them. Hermione does not approve, considering the known death toll, not that it has much of an effect on her friends.

Harry and Ron, climb up the last spiral staircase after entering the Gryffindor common room with the others until they reach their own dormitory, situated at the top of the tower. Five four-poster beds with deep crimson hangings stand against the walls, each with its owner's trunk at the foot.

Dean and Seamus are already getting into bed; Seamus pinned his Ireland rosette to his headboard, and Dean tacked up a poster of Viktor Krum over his bedside table. His old poster of a football team is pinned right next to it.

"Mental," Ron sighs, shaking his head at the completely stationary soccer players.

Harry moves to his own trunk to get his pajamas out and changed so he can get an early sleep, but it isn't easy to disregard the muttering and looks he's receiving from the other side of the dorm. Dean and Seamus are glancing at him in what they probably think passes as surreptitiously, and it's starting to agitate him.

"Hey, if you've got something to say, just say it," he eventually speaks up, looking at the two with an irritated look.

Dean seems reluctant to speak; Seamus less so. "Well," he starts, a bit anxiously, "you know about the rumours, yeah? That you're… you know."

"That I'm  _what_?" At a lack of response, Harry is starting to feel really ticked off, as he can tell what they're getting at. "You think I'm going to molest you in your sleep, or something?"

"No, but… come on, Harry, it's weird!" Seamus defends heatedly, starting to grow red in the face. "I just don't want you to get any ideas—"

Ron now interferes, looking even angrier than Harry. "That's real funny Seamus, because  _I have it on good authority_ that you're the only one getting ideas here." Harry takes only a second to remember what Hermione said a few days ago, and has to strain to hold back his grin.

"What're you trying to say, Weasley?" Seamus snarls, face positively lighting up now, and starting to grow extremely defensive. "I'm not a bloody fairy, unlike some people here!"

"You take that back, you fucking wanker!"

"Knock it off already!" Dean cuts in, seeming to have had enough of the drama, and Harry is inclined to agree. As much as he appreciates Ron defending him, he ought to know by now that Seamus can be a complete prat sometimes, and it's not worth arguing with him over it.

Still, he hadn't expected this to be such an issue. All his other friends gave off the impression that there's nothing wrong with him fancying another boy, and he has no idea why anyone else would think it wrong, but apparently some people do. It's an unpleasant wake-up call, and certainly the first time he's been called "a bloody fairy". It is a good thing he's got thick skin, or that insult might've actually hurt; despite how innocuous it actually sounds, the sheer venom with which it was said left an impression.

Seamus decidedly turns away from them and closes the curtains around his bed, looking thoroughly pissed off. Ron isn't in a much better mood, but as he and Harry slip underneath their covers, the latter manages to distract the former by chatting about the Triwizard tournament, and soon Ron's mood mellows out after half an hour of it.

"I might go in for it, you know," Ron mumbles sleepily through the darkness, "if Fred and George find out how to get in the tournament… you never know, do you?"

"S'pose not."

Harry rolls over in bed, a series of dazzling new, but impossible, pictures forming in his mind's eye.

_He has hoodwinked the impartial judge into believing he's seventeen… he has become Hogwarts' champion… he's standing on the grounds, his arms raised in triumph in front of the whole school, all of whom are applauding and screaming… he has just won the Triwizard Tournament_ _…_

_Tom's face stands out particularly clearly in the blurred crowd, eyes glued on him in admiration._

Harry grins into his pillow, exceptionally glad that Ron can't see what he can.

* * *

The storm has blown itself out by the following morning, though the ceiling in the Great Hall is still gloomy; heavy clouds of pewter gray swirl overhead as Harry, Ron, and Hermione examine their new course schedules at breakfast. Harry ignores the persistent stares and whispers to the best of his ability, and his mood lightens a bit when he discovers that he's free later that afternoon, though Ron has a double period of Divination and Hermione a double period of Arithmancy.

The pleasure (and anxiety) of knowing he'll have some time to talk to Tom doesn't last for long as it is soon time for the first lesson of the year, Herbology, followed by Care of Magical Creatures—one of which involves exceeding amounts of pus and the other handfuls of frog liver to feed creatures that look like deformed, shell-less lobsters (blast-ended skrewts, they're called).

Lunch arrives  _eventually_ , and though Harry's hands now smell like rotten fish, at least he hadn't gotten any nasty remarks from anyone like what happened last night with Seamus. Of course, that couldn't have lasted either. On the way to the Great Hall, he overhears multiple comments from different students passing by, most of them consisting along the lines of "Always knew he was queer" to "I hope it's not contagious" or "I feel sorry for the guys in his dorm".

Hermione urges him to ignore it while Ron takes it upon himself to glare nastily at whoever's insulting his friend. Harry himself isn't sure what to feel about this. He seems to be getting a mixed reaction—sure, there are the bullies who are saying all those horrible things about him, but there also seem to be plenty of students smiling at him (one even giving him a thumbs up) as he walks by.

"This is ridiculous," Harry decides as he sits down at the Gryffindor table, flanked by his friends. "I don't even know  _what_ I am yet and everyone's talking about it as if I screamed it off the rooftops last night."

"I'm sure they'll forget it about it soon, as long as you ignore them," Hermione advises patiently as Harry grabs a sandwich off a plate and moodily starts his lunch.

"Well, I mean, if you fancy boys, you're gay, right?" Ron says quizzically, making Harry scowl.

"I don't like  _boys_ , I like T—"

He stops himself before he can let it slip, cheeks burning up instantly before he quickly looks down at his plate as Hermione gasps in excitement.

"T! His name begins with a T?" She looks around the Great Hall hurriedly. "It's not anyone from our House, but I don't think you know anyone from other Houses that well… it has to be someone outside of school, right?" Harry remains stubbornly silent, and she looks exasperated. "Come on, if we don't know him you might as well tell us what his name is!"

Ron thinks about it for a second. "T… er… Tom?" Harry glares at him intensely, and he guffaws, not caring about the attention he attracts. "No way! I got it right on the first try? That's brilliant!"

"Will you  _shut up_?" Harry hisses, glancing at all the stares he's receiving. Why did Tom have to have such a damned common name?

"What's he like? Is he really a muggle? And—"

The bell rings to signal the start of a new lesson, and Harry has never been more grateful for it. Hermione purses her lips in dissatisfaction, and Ron looks thoroughly disappointed at missing out on pestering Harry more, but the two do eventually leave for their classes while Harry heads back to the Gryffindor common room, trying to get the flush off his face as he walks towards the stairs.

Naturally, he didn't keep in mind that, much like him, Malfoy also attends Ancient Runes, so he is free that afternoon as well. The two practically run into each other as Harry is too busy staring down at the ground and Malfoy too busy saying something to Goyle, resulting in an awkward collision.

"Watch where you're going, Potter," Malfoy snaps irritably as he takes a step back, straightening out his robes while Harry feels a vein on his forehead pop at the sight of him.

"What? You scared I might  _contaminate_ you, Malfoy?" Harry snaps back, hand itching to grasp his wand. And here he almost started thinking that underneath all that vanity and arrogance, Malfoy might have actually been a good person. Well, the joke's on him now, isn't it?

Malfoy arches a delicate brow. "What are you going on about this time?"

"Don't act dumb. You're the one who spread the bloody rumour in the first place!"

Malfoy squints, frowns, glances at both Crabbe and Goyle who shrug sheepishly, then turns back to Harry.

"I think you might've lost the plot, Potter," he says slowly. "I didn't say anything about you having a disease, or whatever."

"It's not a disease it's… oh, sod it! I'm not going to bother with—"

"Wait," Malfoy cuts him off, as if he's just had an epiphany. "You think this is about you being gay?"

"What else could it be?" Harry takes a moment to recall Malfoy's exact words, and when he does, all brain-activity pauses as he scrambles for words. "You… this is about me fancying a  _muggle_?" From Malfoy's disgusted expression, Harry assumes that to be a yes, and he is absolutely, positively mind-boggled. "Okay, hold on, you're not prejudiced against gay people, you're prejudiced against muggles. Do you have  _any_ idea how idiotic that sounds?"

"Why would that be idiotic?" Malfoy sneers, the revulsion thick in his voice. "Who you fancy doesn't have an impact on your ability, but not having magic does. Muggles are clearly inferior to us in every way, why  _anyone_ would want to put up with their uncivilised society is beyond me."

Harry is, truly, at a loss for words, though that feeling quickly fades and is replaced by anger. How the bloody hell does Malfoy's mind manage to function without collapsing on itself? Not having magic hasn't been an obstacle for muggles in any way; in fact, they are technologically a century ahead of wizards, and this complete arse still considers them inferior and faults them for something they didn't happen to be born with; in other words, something that they can't even  _help_ , much like which gender you fancy or don't fancy.

Feeling a headache coming up, Harry decides to avoid getting into an argument with Malfoy right outside the Great Hall as they are attracting too many onlookers, and instead settles with, "Believe whatever you want, Malfoy, I'm done." He stalks off towards the stairs, though after a few feet he pauses just a moment before looking over his shoulder and adding to a smug-looking Malfoy, "And for the record, my supposed ' _boyfriend'_  is a wizard—a greater wizard than you'll EVER be."

He doesn't wait for a retort, not that it would've come  _had_ he waited for it. He catches a glimpse of Malfoy's furious face, which gives him a sliver of satisfaction, but doesn't hear any words as the students that gathered to watch their exchange start talking animatedly amongst themselves.

And that is the exact moment where Harry realises that he has practically told the whole school that he has a boyfriend when he doesn't. Great way to put his foot in his own mouth.

Trudging up the stairs, Harry has no idea how he is supposed to face Tom in his current state of mind. His dorms should certainly be empty, but even with that privacy he doesn't know if he really wants to talk to Tom at all. The thought makes him nervous and jittery, especially with what he just blurted out—does he want Tom as his boyfriend? The idea is a silly one. Tom isn't suited to be a  _boyfriend_ ; it's too much of a childish term, and far too simple, to fit someone as complex and mature as Tom.

Still, the thought behind it is the same, and he does want  _something_ with Tom, wants it so badly it makes his chest tighten as he knows it neither will nor can ever happen, but he can't put it into words and it's starting to mess with his head.

Whenever he thinks about it, his mind tends to wander off and he'll start getting hot underneath his clothes. Just imagining what it would be like to kiss him makes him feel as if he's just broken twenty different laws. It's scandalous to imagine—he respects Tom too much to let his fantasy run wild, even if it still does sometimes, but the guilt he feels afterwards is always overwhelming. He shouldn't be misusing his friend's image to suit his own selfish needs, which is stupid because all of this  _is_ happening inside his own head where Tom will never see any of it, but he still censors himself on it as much as he can. It has created the most frustrating conflict inside his head; desire versus principle. It's a battle he will lose no matter what.

Not all of this is just  _his_ fault, though. Tom knows something of it, suspects it maybe, and he's playing games. Maybe teasing him. Harry doesn't know. He doesn't want to address it. If this all could just go away so he can pretend none of it happened it would be so much easier for him, and yet, if he tries hard enough, he can still feel the ghost of Tom's fingers holding onto his chin, and his imagination often escalates the reality whenever he remembers; a blistering kiss in the shadows of the library that conceal roaming hands, scorching whispers and fingertips teasing on sensitive skin, teeth and tongue on lips and soft moans—

The first thing Harry does after arriving in the common rooms is to head up to the boys' bathroom to take a cold shower, trying to shake the heat off and get his thoughts into order. He doesn't even  _think_ about doing what… well, what teenage boys tend to do in these situations. Principle wins out in this instance, and he keeps his hands firmly focused on the task of cleaning his skin with soap. It helps, for the most part, and it's only after he's certain the dorms are completely abandoned and he's clear-headed again that he takes the diary out of his trunk.

Tom materialises right in front of him, seated on the foot-end of Harry's four-poster with as calm a countenance as always. Lately, the sight of him always has a way to make Harry's heart skip a beat.

"Back in Hogwarts, I see. As always, the red is glaring," he murmurs as he looks around the dormitory, and though there isn't any specific sign of distaste in his expression, it is palpable in his voice.

"You don't like the red?" Harry asks, still drying off his hair with a towel.

"I prefer the green, for obvious reasons, though I admit the view is nicer up here," Tom replies, standing up and wandering towards a window as he says so. Harry watches him, trying to suppress the bubbly feeling of nerves in his stomach. "I'm surprised you didn't decide to talk to me after that little spat last night."

Harry can almost physically feel the blood draining out of his face. "Y-you overheard that, huh?"

"Yes, even from the bottom of the trunk," Tom replies smoothly, even if the tone of dissatisfaction is still present like the tip of an otherwise dull knife. "What brought it on?"

"Oh, er, just some stupid rumours," Harry says hastily in a valiant effort to push the issue aside, which Tom of course immediately sees through, leaning against the wall next to the window and crossing his arms with a sceptical look. "Okay, fine. So, it was about… um… well, Hermione and Ron kept teasing me about having a crush on someone on the train, and Malfoy overheard it, so he spread the gossip. That's all. Really. No big deal."

" _Do_ you have a crush on someone? Male, I presume?" Tom inquires, his lips lined in that faintest of knowing smiles that makes Harry want to hide his face in his pillow. It's cruel.  _He's_ cruel. He knows Harry won't come out and say it, and yet he pushes him whenever he can, getting amusement out of seeing him squirm. Well, not today—Harry's had it.

"I do, in fact," he blurts out, and then desperately tries not to let the pause drag on for too long as he searches for a name while Tom's eyebrows arch questioningly. "He-he's older than me," Harry continues, semi-confidently, while Tom pushes off the wall and starts walking towards him.

"Is he, now?"

Harry swallows thickly, staying rooted into place while Tom starts circling around him slowly, as if a lion contemplating when he should pounce on his prey. Or maybe not a lion. Maybe something more cunning, like a leopard. "Yeah, and he's… um… he's at Hogwarts too."

"Go on."

He's starting to run out of things to say. He has to come up with a name really soon. "Really helpful guy. Friendly, and stuff. Talented."

"Sounds familiar," Tom muses softly as he finally comes to a halt in front of Harry, and  _Merlin_  he's far too close for comfort; it's making Harry's stomach do all kinds of acrobatic stunts while he tries desperately not to let his composure collapse. "Could this be someone I know?"

"It's…" Alright, someone older than him, helpful, friendly, talented—it shouldn't be this hard to name a random upperclassman but Tom's presence is severely impairing his ability to think clearly. Helpful. Friendly. Talented.  _Talented…_ Quidditch talented? Then what about— "Cedric. Cedric Diggory."

Tom takes an abrupt step back, frowning slightly as he takes in Harry's expression. " _Cedric Diggory_?"

"I'm-I'm sure I must've mentioned him before," Harry lies as best he can. "You know, he and his father were there when I went to the Quidditch World Finals with everyone? And I played against him last year; he's the Hufflepuff team captain, really talented Seeker. He, uh, left quite the impression on me. I mean… yeah." Harry finishes off awkwardly, holding back the nervous laughter that would've made the whole thing even  _less_ believable.

Tom seems highly suspicious of it, but to Harry's surprise, doesn't actually question it. No, he does far worse. "I see. I am eager to meet him then, since you speak so highly of him."

"W-what?"

"It would be a rather one-sided meeting," Tom continues casually, moving away from Harry and back towards the windows, "but I'm sure since you're not planning on leaving my diary up here for the entire school year, it shouldn't be a problem to take me along the next time you see him."

"The next time I…" Harry is utterly bewildered—what is Tom expecting him to do here, exactly? "He's not actually my boyfriend, you know! He's already dating this girl, Cho Chang, so it's not like I—"

"I'm sure that won't last long, and you weren't planning on suffering in silence while he traipses some girl around, were you? You are  _in love_  with him, after all." Tom reminds him with a smile that would've eyed innocent, were it not for his challenging gaze. "You must have something in mind to seduce him with?"

"I don't even know if he  _likes_ boys!"

"Then go and find out."

"But—"

"You'll never win him over with  _this_ attitude." Tom reproaches him with all the kindness in the world that only very thinly veils the self-satisfied attitude underneath, and Harry had never felt the intense urge to ever actually throw random objects at his head until this very moment. "Where's that fearless spirit you Gryffindors are so well-known for? Go forth and sweep him off his feet! If you desire his attention so ardently, which you no doubt do because you are  _in love_ with him, surely you can't object? I'll even aid you, if that would please you."

Harry is certain that Tom knows it's all bollocks, but he seems much happier with strangling Harry in his own lie rather than exposing it, while Harry's conscience screams  _'JUST TELL HIM'_  and his pride howls  _'DON'T SAY A WORD'_  and his heart yells  _'THROW A BOOK AT HIS SMUG HEAD, THE BASTARD'_.

For a moment, Harry is so angry and frazzled by the whole thing that he opens his mouth and nearly admits the entire lie.

Of course Neville chooses that exact moment to walk in and Tom disappears, leaving the situation completely unresolved and Harry stuck in the deception he created in an attempt to one-up Tom for once.

And then his heart whispers, ' _Should've thrown the book while you had the chance'._


	15. Chapter 15

The next three days pass without great incident, unless you count Neville melting his sixth cauldron in Potions. Professor Snape, who seems to have attained new levels of vindictiveness over the summer, immediately gives Neville detention, and Neville returns from it in a state of nervous collapse, having been made to disembowel a barrel full of horned toads.

Considering the dreadful periods that encompass Potions lessons (and though Harry has seen himself improve a splinter, it's not nearly enough for him to actually get  _motivated_  about a subject that for him amounts to throwing things into a giant bowl and hoping it doesn't explode), the Gryffindor fourth years are looking forward to Moody's first lesson so much that they arrive early on Friday lunchtime and queue up outside his classroom before the bell even rings. The only person missing is Hermione, who turns up just in time for the lesson.

"Been in the—"

"Library," Harry finishes her sentence for her as he tries his utmost to ignore a certain someone who has been accompanying him silently. "C'mon, quick, or we won't get decent seats."

They hurry into three chairs right in front of the teacher's desk, take out their copies of  _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ , and wait, unusually quiet. They've heard so many rumours on how awesome Moody's lessons are from their upperclassmen that their expectations have risen substantially.

Harry's companion saunters over to the front of the classroom and looks curiously over the contents of the new Professor's desk, though he touches nothing, and quickly seems to lose interest, moving away towards the windows instead. Harry wonders why he caved in to Tom's  _request_ of taking the diary with him during his lessons; things between them, at least from Harry's side, are strained. He can't say he's still angry about what happened a few days ago, but the frustration has certainly lingered, prompting him to be more guarded during his conversations with Tom (who, of course, feigns innocence and pretends as if nothing at all has changed).

Soon they hear Moody's distinctive clunking footsteps coming down the corridor, tearing Harry's attention away from his 'friend', and the Professor enters the room, looking as strange and frightening as ever. His clawed, wooden foot protrudes from underneath his robes, visible for all to see.

"You can put those away," he growls, stumping over to his desk and sitting down. "Those books, you won't need them."

After a brief pause of surprise, the students all return the books to their bags, Ron looking excited, Hermione looking indignant.

Moody takes out a register, shakes his long mane of grizzled grey hair out of his twisted and scarred face, and begins to call out names, his normal eye moving steadily down the list while his magical eye swivels around, fixing upon each student as he or she answers.

"Right then," he starts when the last person has declared themselves present, "I've had a letter from Professor Lupin about this class. Seems you've had a pretty thorough grounding in tackling Dark creatures—you've covered boggarts, red caps, hinkypunks, grindylows, kappas, and werewolves, is that right?"

There's a general murmur of assent.

"But you're behind, very behind, on dealing with curses," Moody continues. "So I'm here to bring you up to scratch on what wizards can do to each other. I've got one year to teach you how to deal with Dark—"

"What, aren't you staying?" Ron blurts out.

Moody's magical eye spins around to stare at Ron; Ron looks extremely apprehensive, but after a moment Moody smiles—the first time Harry has seen him do so. The effect makes his heavily scarred face look more twisted and contorted than ever, but it's nevertheless good to know that he is capable of something as friendly as a smile. Ron looks deeply relieved.

"You're Arthur Weasley's son, eh? Your father got me out of a very tight corner a few days ago. Yeah, I'm staying just the one year. Special favour to Dumbledore. One year, and then back to my quiet retirement." He gives a harsh laugh, and then claps his gnarled hands together. "So, straight into it. Curses."

This is the point where Harry's attention starts drifting somewhat and his gaze crosses with Tom's, who gives him a knowing look. In his previous year, Harry was already tutored on a range of curses, from basic immobilising spells to exploding ones, quick and subtle jinxes to make your opponent trip or confuse them, blind them, paralyse them—he hasn't practised all of them, but he's confident when it comes to his offensive spell-work.

"So, do any of you know which curses are most heavily punished by wizarding law?"

At this question Harry returns from his reminiscing to the lesson, and holds up his hand. Several other hands rise tentatively into the air as well, including Ron's and Hermione's. Moody points at Ron, though his magical eye glances at Harry, who thinks he might have been a little too eager in giving the answer.

"Er," Ron begins tentatively, looking a bit uncertain under Moody's scrutiny, "my dad told me about one. Is it called the Imperius Curse, or something?"

"Ah, yes," Moody responds appreciatively. "Your father would know that one. Gave the Ministry a lot of trouble at one time, the Imperius Curse."

It is then that Harry sees an actual application of the curse for the first time, as Moody pulls out a jar from one of his desk drawers, and uses a spider (Ron practically shudders next to him) to demonstrate the effect of the curse.

" _Imperio."_ The muttered spell which Harry hears for the first time is all it takes for the spider to completely obey Moody's whims. Which makes Harry wonder—is this legal? Is Moody allowed to perform the curse if only to educate his students?

At first it seems rather harmless; the Professor makes the spider jump from desk to desk, crawl onto people's books and robes, and perform rather acrobatic stunts mid-air. Moody certainly makes it look deceptively fun. Harry knows there are far more gruesome ways to use the curse, as he learned from Tom: making people harm or kill others, jump out of windows or drown themselves. He is perhaps the only one that isn't laughing during the display, and from Moody's magical eye honing in on him every now and again, it appears his behaviour has been noticed.

Eventually, after barking something about "CONSTANT VIGILANCE" to disrupt the jovial atmosphere in the classroom and relaying the dangers of the curse, Moody picks up the somersaulting spider and throws it back into the jar.

"Anyone else know one? Another illegal curse?"

Next to Harry's, Hermione's hand flies into the air again and so, to Harry's slight surprise, does Neville's. The only class in which Neville usually volunteers information is Herbology, which is easily his best subject. Even Neville looks surprised at his own daring.

"Yes?" Moody prompts, his magical eye rolling right over to fix on Neville.

"There's one—the Cruciatus Curse," Neville replies in a small but distinct voice.

Moody looks very intently at Neville, this time with both eyes. "Your name's Longbottom?"

Neville nods nervously, but Moody makes no further inquiries. Turning back to the class at large, he reaches into the jar for the next spider and places it upon the desktop, where it remains motionless, apparently too scared to move.

"The Cruciatus Curse," Moody says. "Needs to be a bit bigger for you to get the idea." He points his wand at the spider. " _Engorgio_!"

The spider swells instantly, now larger than a tarantula. Abandoning all pretence, Ron pushes his chair backward, as far away from Moody's desk as possible.

Moody raises his wand again, points it at the spider once more, and mutters, " _Crucio_!"

For a moment, Harry pauses, and wonders where he's heard that before, but his mind is right after distracted by the gruesome display on Moody's desk.

Immediately the spider's legs bend in on its body; it rolls over and starts twitching horribly, rocking from side to side. No sound comes from it, but Harry is certain that if it could have given voice, it would have been screaming. Moody does not remove his wand for five long seconds, and the spider starts to shudder and jerk more violently—

"Stop it!" Hermione cries out shrilly, and Harry glances at her at once. She's looking, not at the spider, but at Neville, and Harry, following her gaze, spots Neville's hands clenched on the desk in front of him, his knuckles white, and his eyes wide and horrified. It can't be that this is the first time he's seen it then, for a reaction that violent to take place. Neville is pretty soft, but even he wouldn't look so traumatised at a spell he doesn't know from elsewhere. Harry can't help but wonder if he's ever seen it performed on an actual person—watching the spider twitch about is one thing, but imagining an actual human being in that much pain and suffering is nothing short of revolting.

Moody raises his wand once more. The spider's legs relax, but it continues to twitch. It is easy to see why it's called an Unforgivable Curse; it's pure torture, plain and simple. Harry looks away from the spider, glancing at Tom who's been watching carefully—not the spider, but rather, Professor Moody.

" _Reducio_." The spider shrinks back to its proper size. The Professor puts it back into the jar. "Pain," Moody says softly. "You don't need thumbscrews or knives to torture someone if you can perform the Cruciatus Curse. That one was very popular once too. Right… anyone know any others?"

Harry briefly looks around. From the expressions on everyone's faces, he guesses they're all wondering what's going to happen to the last spider. He raises his hand, undeterred and steady. There are far more terrible ways to kill your opponent than a quick curse that instantly kills you, like the Exploding-Entrails Spell. Now  _that_ is a terrible way to go. Harry almost wishes Tom hadn't informed him of these things, but in the end, it is better to know.

"Yes?" Moody looks at him, and he can feel everyone else's eyes boring into him as well.

"The Killing Curse," Harry answers simply.

"Ah," said Moody, another slight smile twisting his lopsided mouth. "Yes, the last and worst, the Killing Curse."

He puts his hand into the glass jar, and almost as though it knows what's coming, the third spider scuttles frantically around the bottom of the jar, trying to evade Moody's fingers, but he traps it, and places it on the top of the desk. It starts scurrying frantically across the wooden surface, towards the edge in an attempt to escape, and Harry can't help but feel a sharp pang of pity for it. Is it really necessary to put these curses on display like this?

" _Avada Kedavra_!" Moody roars.

There's a flash of blinding green light and a rushing sound—and Harry has seen this flash before, in his darkest nightmares—after which the spider instantaneously rolls over onto its back, unmarked, but unmistakably dead. He has to swallow down the sudden wave of nausea that rises to his throat, his eyes glued to the dead spider. What was it like, for his parents? Scrambling to protect him, and then, with just two words and a split-second of green, their lives extinguished, just like that, like-like insects? Like they never really mattered?

Several of the students stifle cries; Ron threw himself backward and almost toppled off his seat as the spider skidded toward him, and yet even he seems disturbed by the sudden death of the arachnid.

Moody sweeps the dead spider off the desk onto the floor.

"Not nice," he says calmly. "Not pleasant. And there's no counter-curse. There's no blocking it. Only one known person has ever survived it, and he's sitting right in front of me."

Harry feels his face go from unhealthy pale to red as Moody's eyes (both of them) look into his own. Everyone else is looking around at him too, but he's barely aware of it. The only stare he clearly registers is Tom's, but his expression is inscrutable. For once, Harry wishes he could look into his head to see what he's thinking.

Moody goes on to speak, telling the class something about more "CONSTANT VIGILANCE" and how they have to be taught how to fight, how he has to arm them—whatever the message really is, Harry isn't paying attention anymore. The classroom feels suffocating.

They spend the rest of the lesson taking notes on each of the Unforgivable Curses. No one speaks until the bell rings, but when Moody dismisses them and they leave the classroom, a torrent of talk bursts forth. Most people are discussing the curses in awed voices:

"Did you see it twitch?"

"—and when he killed it, just like that!"

Harry grits his teeth and is the first to leave the classroom, Ron and Hermione flustered at his sudden departure, but following closely. Of course, they're not as close as Tom, who is right behind him, and his presence is soothing to Harry's aggravated state of mind. It requires just a light touch on his elbow and an exchange of looks for Harry to exhale and relax his tense shoulders, peering back into dark eyes that are nothing but patient. No words are required. Even if his teasing lately has been infuriating, Tom seems to know exactly what to do to calm him.

"Harry, are you—oh," Hermione interrupts herself, standing right out the doorway with Harry a few steps down, pointing up a side passage. "Neville."

Harry pauses and turns his head to look. Neville is standing alone, halfway down the passage, staring at the stone wall opposite him with the same horrified, wide-eyed look he wore when Moody had demonstrated the Cruciatus Curse.

"Neville?" Hermione says gently.

Neville looks around, startled. "Oh hello," he greets them nervously, his voice much higher than usual. "Interesting lesson, wasn't it? I wonder what's for dinner, I'm-I'm starving, aren't you?"

"Neville, are you all right?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine," Neville prattles in the same unnaturally high voice. "Very interesting dinner—I mean lesson—what's for eating?"

Ron gives Harry a bemused look, who turns to Neville with a concerned furrow between his eyebrows.

"Neville, what—?"

Right then an odd clunking noise sounds behind them, cutting Harry off, and they turn to see Professor Moody limping toward them. All four of them fall silent, watching him apprehensively, but when he speaks, it's in a much lower and gentler growl than they've yet heard.

"It's all right, sonny," he says to Neville. "Why don't you come up to my office? Come on, we can have a cup of tea."

Neville looks even more frightened at the prospect of tea with Moody. He neither moves nor speaks. Moody turns his magical eye upon Harry.

"You all right, are you, Potter?"

"Yes," Harry replies curtly, his discomfort from earlier having already passed, but not being keen on talking about the experience.

Moody's blue eye quivers slightly in its socket as it surveys Harry. Then he says, "It seems harsh, maybe, but you had to see. No point pretending… well… come on, Longbottom, I've got some books that might interest you."

Neville looks pleadingly at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, but they remain silent, so Neville has no choice but to allow himself to be steered away, one of Moody's gnarled hands on his shoulder.

"What was that about?" Ron mumbles, watching Neville and Moody turn the corner.

"I don't know," Hermione replies, looking more pensive than curious, and the three continue their way down from the tower.

"Some lesson, though, eh?" Ron turns to Harry as they set off for the Great Hall. "Fred and George were right, weren't they? He really knows his stuff, Moody. When he did Avada Kedavra, the way that spider just died, just snuffed it right—"

Harry gives him a long, hard look, and Ron falls silent.

* * *

His letter to Sirius and Remus is fairly short, briefly letting them know of the announcement concerning the Triwizard Tournament, adding that Snape is a right git as always, and then informing them of Moody's, well, unusual method of teaching. His handwriting in the letter is unsteady—Tom watched him write it, and the attention made it difficult for Harry to concentrate.

It's all a mess, really. Harry doesn't know what he wants from Tom, nor does he know what Tom is expecting from him. Sure, he could ask, but Tom would just talk his way around the issue and Harry's pride refuses to let him win. It's childish to think of it as a competition, but that's what it has turned into. Is Harry going to cave and let the secret out, or will he succeed in overcoming it, not giving in to Tom's taunting?

It hurts, though. Assuming that Tom knows, it's clear he's not taking anything seriously. He seems content with playing with Harry's feelings, as if this is all some grand joke the boy is pulling on him, and he's simply acting his part. If only for that reason, Harry considers several times whether it isn't better to confront him, to make him consider their… their relationship, whatever it might be at the moment, in a serious light. In the end, though, he's afraid of the answer he knows he will get if he does that, and it's too painful and embarrassing to think about.

When Harry leaves the common room and heads to the Owlery, Tom follows him. For the first time, Harry wishes he didn't; even as a silent companion, his presence is distracting. They've spoken very little the past few days, and it hasn't helped the tension between them.

Harry glances at him every now and then, from the corners of his eyes. Lately, even before the disastrous conversation they had three days ago, he's sometimes found Tom lost in his own thoughts. It's not an unusual occurrence, but there is something different in his posture, something more rigid and aloof about it—Harry can't quite put his finger on it.

He decides to put his thoughts aside for a while; he needs to finish his Transfiguration homework and get started on his Potions essay. Those things are more important than this awkward situation he finds himself in with Tom, right? Education before everything else.

(Naturally he wouldn't have given a whit about doing his homework on a regular day, but it gives him a perfect excuse to avoid his friends' prying and talking to Tom.)

His shoulders relax a bit when he finally reaches the top of the West Tower.

The Owlery is a circular stone room, rather cold and breezy, because none of the windows have glass in them, for obvious reasons. The floor is entirely covered in straw, owl droppings, and the regurgitated skeletons of mice and voles.

Hundreds upon hundreds of owls of every breed imaginable are nestled on perches that rise right up to the top of the tower, nearly all of them asleep, though here and there a round amber eye glare at Harry. He spots Hedwig nestled between a barn owl and a tawny, and hurries over to her, sliding a little on the dropping-strewn floor.

' _Does no one ever clean this place?'_ Harry thinks with his nose scrunched up in mild disgust at the excrement now stuck to the bottom of his sneaker. Taking out his wand, he points at his shoe. " _Scourgify."_ The filth disappears, and after a second of consideration, he points to the rest of the floor and repeats the cleaning spell. All traces of owl droppings and feathers vanish.

"I'm sure the janitor will be delighted to see you're doing his job for him," Tom remarks sardonically from near the entrance of the Owlery, though his tone is soft and he seems somewhat languid about it all the same. Harry glances at him, hesitant in responding, and settles for a shrug. Why'd he teach him that spell if he's going to mock him for it, then?

He rouses Hedwig, petting her head, and she wakes, blinking up at him slowly, and with a fondness he recognises as a greeting. "Hello," he murmurs with a slight smile. "Up for a delivery?"

Hedwig nips his finger, perhaps a bit harder than she usually would've done; he's been neglecting her lately, so wrapped up in everything else going on around him.

Harry sighs. "I know, I know. Sorry."

She eventually sticks out her leg, allowing him to tie the letter to it. It is at least a comfort to know that Hedwig will never change, or pester him about personal issues he himself hasn't even figured out yet.

Carrying her to one of the holes in the wall as she's perched on his arm, he lightly strokes the soft feathers on her back. "You'll be able to find it, right?"

Hedwig hoots sharply, almost looking offended, and Harry grins back at her. "Didn't mean to doubt you, just making sure."

"Pretty owl you've got there."

The voice startles him to such an extent that Harry turns around a bit too quickly for Hedwig, who flaps her wings and digs her claws into his arm, making him wince briefly, though his attention is diverted to the newcomer.

Cedric smiles apologetically, hands in his pocket. "Sorry, did I startle you?" He's standing next to the doorway, and Tom is standing right next to him, his eyebrows raised as he looks at the Hufflepuff, lips quirked in the most amused smile Harry has ever seen him make. Harry himself is not amused. At all.

A second passes where he finds himself completely tongue-tied, and he opens his mouth, and then blurts out a completely nonsensical answer. "Er, no, no, you didn't startle me, you just caught me off guard." He pauses, a frown slowly forming a wrinkle between his eyes, and glances at Tom, who arches his brows sharply as a hint that Harry made no sense just now. "Wait…"

Instead of giving him an odd look as if he were mental (sort of like Tom's doing at the moment), to his credit, Cedric just laughs, seeing the humour rather than the error. "I guess that's another way to put it." He turns to his owl, and Harry watches him poke it. At his confused stare, Cedric explains. "Osbert doesn't like being petted. Probably thinks it'll mess up his feathers, or something. He's a vain one."

"Oh." Harry blinks, looking away as he tries not to say anything stupid. Tom is watching him intently, expecting  _something_ from him. Now comes the dilemma: does he play along with his lie, or does he abandon it?

His initial instinct is to abandon it. It's ridiculous; why should he possibly embarrass himself in front of Cedric when Tom probably won't even care if he  _does_ have a crush on the Hufflepuff to begin with? Why bother with all this when he can just come out and tell the truth, not pretend and get himself in a probably even stickier situation?

But, a voice in his head argues, something was off with Tom's teasing three days before. In hindsight, it almost seemed spiteful, irritated—maybe, if he does go along with this, he can give Tom a taste of his own medicine. Harry doesn't know  _why_ Tom would care about who he's in love with. Perhaps he thinks that Harry will neglect him if he's head over heels over some boy, and Harry can see that if he  _were_ in love with someone else, he wouldn't be spending nearly as much time with Tom anymore.

And if that's the case, then damn his conscience; he started this stupid game, and he's going to finish it.

"So, er…" But sod it if it's not bloody difficult to pull the act off successfully with Tom watching him like a hawk. "How've you been? We didn't see you again after what happened at the World Cup." he manages at last, though clumsily.

Cedric looks up briefly, having just been tying his own letter to his owl's leg. "Alright, I guess. I didn't see much of what happened back there. Dad insisted I take a portkey out of there, but I would've helped, if I could."

Harry's surprised to hear that, but Cedric seems sincere. Hufflepuffs have never struck him as particularly brave—mostly just very even-tempered and patient. He turns back towards the hole, and gives Hedwig a last smile before she launches off his arm and flies off into the sky. He watches her as he responds. "It was probably for the best, anyway. Everything was in complete chaos."

"Yeah, I heard it wasn't pretty," Cedric mumbles as his owl hops onto his arm and he moves towards the holes as well, standing right next to Harry who tries to figure out how he would've handled this had he been crushing on Cedric.

It shouldn't be so hard to figure this out, Harry thinks as he covertly peers at Cedric's face. He's tall, well-built with a handsome face, friendly and easy to talk to, a talented Seeker and apparently quite brave as well—he is attractive. The thought occurs to him so suddenly that he's almost flustered at it. Cedric is attractive. This shouldn't be so surprising to him, except that Harry didn't expect that term would've ever applied to anyone else but a certain person gazing at them intently from near the doorway.

He  _is_ attractive, but Harry still doesn't find himself much attracted to him beyond the superficial. He barely knows Cedric, he can't really just force himself to start perfectly emulating behaviour of a love-struck fourteen year old. He thinks back to the first time they met. His initial impression had been that Cedric had been very striking, but more relevantly, he'd reminded him of Tom. It's not that they particularly look alike, but it's the same  _kind_ of handsome. It's the kind of handsome that could take your breath away and make you melt into a puddle on the ground with just a smile. Dashingly good-looking—something along those lines. Old-fashioned.

Considering this similarity, if he replaces Cedric with Tom in his mind, maybe he'll be able to pull this off?

The thing is, with the  _actual_ Tom standing just a few feet away, the chance of succeeding at that is highly improbable, if not downright impossible. He has to try and ignore him as best he can, pretend he doesn't exist, and concentrate solely on Cedric, but how could anyone ignore Tom? His sheer presence is a force alone; it would be like someone expressly forbidding you from thinking about dragons. What do you think about then? Exactly— _dragons_.

Nevertheless, Harry isn't going to give up without trying. It would be too easy a loss.  _'Tom doesn't matter right now, he's gone, the diary is in the bottom of your trunk, there's only Cedric here…'_

"What do you think about the Tournament?" Harry eventually asks as he watches Cedric's owl launch off and depart in the same direction as Hedwig left in earlier.

No longer inhibited by an owl on his arm, Cedric now turns to face Harry, smiling lightly. Harry forces himself to study that smile, hoping that maybe if he gets more familiar with it, acting like he's in love will be easier. It's a pleasant one, relaxed and easy, though there's something a bit embarrassed about it as well. "I'm thinking about signing up for it, actually."

"You're seventeen?"

"Not yet. Turning seventeen in two weeks."

"Oh," Harry can't help but feel envious. Stupid age-limit. "Wish I could sign up. D'you reckon it's really as dangerous as Dumbledore makes it out to be?"

"I certainly hope not. All that talk about the past death toll is making me reconsider," Cedric murmurs, leaning back against the wall. "If it wasn't for my dad, I doubt I would've…" He drifts off a little, glancing at Harry with a slight frown. "Sorry, I shouldn't be whining."

"No, it's fine," Harry reassures him quickly, curiosity wide-awake. "Is, er, your dad pressuring you into it?"

"I wouldn't say pressuring, but… yeah, alright, it's pressuring." Cedric sighs deeply. "He's a great father, but sometimes, I think he's a bit  _too_ proud of me. It's just the expectations…" He trails off again, but Harry genuinely feels like he understands.

"They feel too big sometimes, don't they?" As The Boy Who Lived, the expectations on himself have always been like a ball of chain he's permanently dragging around with him. If his first impression of Amos Diggory hasn't been a wrong one, he can imagine Cedric feeling stressed, conflicted, much the way he feels at the thought of everyone else counting on  _him_ to single-handedly defeat the most powerful Dark wizard in history.

Cedric looks at him with his eyes widening slightly, before something like relief seems to wash over him. As if he's just happy that someone else can relate. He looks even handsomer with that expression on his face, and Harry imagines what Tom would look like with a similar expression, and his heart flutters at the visual. It suddenly occurs to him that he's never seen Tom look happy. Content, sure, but nothing of actual happiness.

Shaking the thought off, Harry forces himself to forget about that for the moment before his eyes start drifting towards the silent presence near the door.

"It's exhausting sometimes, but I don't have it in me to disappoint anyone," Cedric admits. "You're the same, I think."

Harry isn't sure what he's supposed to do with those eyes that are looking at him now with a deep interest, let alone how to behave. He takes a silent breath through the slightest parting between his lips, trying to keep clear-headed.  _'Don't. Panic.'_

"Yeah," He exhales right after, and manages a smile. "Yeah, I think you're right."

Cedric stares at him a moment longer, and opens his mouth to say more, their eyes locked, when the sound of voices nearing seems to shatter whatever it is that was just shared between them—Harry feels too uncomfortable to voluntarily figure out what that look in Cedric's eyes meant.

"I, uh, I gotta go," he says weakly. "Homework."

Cedric simply nods. "I guess I'll see you around?"

"Sure," Harry responds numbly, still wondering what the bloody hell just happened there as he moves away from Cedric and makes his escape.

He leaves so quickly, so intent on getting out of there, that he doesn't even notice the pair of dark eyes fixed on his back, their gaze cold.


	16. Chapter 16

Harry never cared much for Transfiguration before. To him it isn't nearly as bad as Potions, where he tends to simply fling a handful of ingredients in a cauldron and prays to Merlin's knickers it doesn't explode on him, but it isn't a very exciting course either. It's perhaps the most theory-heavy subject taught to them which does nothing to increase his fondness for it. He has enough homework for Ancient Runes being that Professor Babbling seems to enjoy stealing away large chunks of her student's spare time, and to have Transfiguration homework on top of it is nothing short of torture for his poor, overworked brain.

That is, if he actually bothered to  _do_  any of it.

Hermione is quite infuriated with him. Not simply for not doing his homework (that annoys her either way), but she's truly irked because he's not doing his homework  _and_ he's succeeding at a personally unprecedented rate during the lessons. Professor McGonagall is certainly as astonished at his progress as Hermione is. While on the theory he tends to do poorly, in practice, Harry is always one of the firsts to succeed in whatever transfiguration they're given to do in class.

"Well done, Potter," McGonagall says to him one afternoon when he manages to turn his parrot into a long, red candle, ten minutes behind Hermione while the rest of the class is still floundering with the subject material. "You've improved substantially compared to last year."

"Thanks," Harry mutters, growing a bit antsy at her almost suspicious look. Then again, his recent advancement in the subject must have appeared to her as very sudden, if not inexplicable. "I, er, did some studying over the summer."

"I see." McGonagall gives him a long look, before the corners of her mouth twitch briefly in what almost looks like a smile. "Your father excelled at Transfiguration during his time at Hogwarts, as I recall. It seems you've taken to him beyond your Quidditch talent." With that, she turns away to disapprove greatly of Dean's feathered candle, launching into a lecture about their O.W.L.s and how they'll be doomed to fail in fifth year if they can't even transfigure something so undemanding.

Harry is left staring at his candle, a warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of his stomach, and not even Seamus' bad-tempered looks can wipe the grin off his face during the rest of the lesson.

And to think, it all started out with a hedgehog.

It was during the first practical lesson of the year that Harry discovered his new talent. Last year, he didn't have much time to experiment with what Tom had taught him on the subject—he'd been too caught up in the situation with Sirius, as well as the question of where he was going to stay during the summer considering the Ministry deemed the Dursley residence unsafe and unhealthy—he hadn't had the time to try out everything Tom taught him.

" _Magical law does not exist."_

This bit of advice is what stuck with him the most, when he was first told about Gamp's Law on Elemental Transfiguration being complete nonsense, and when he first heard that there were no such things as "exceptions" to the rule. At the time he'd had trouble comprehending it; the rule was written so solidly in his textbooks, reiterated a hundred times over by McGonagall, that it was difficult to denounce it as Tom did.

_"You can transform anything with enough concentration and enough willpower. Why should you be able to turn a cup into a rat but not a carrot? Magic makes no distinctions, or exceptions; we do."_

It was only after Tom convinced him with his reasoning and proved it to him with the apple that Harry decided he ought to venture beyond the false limitations and learn. He spent  _some_  time replicating the apple-trick, though he never managed to get very far beyond duplicating it in appearance. Still, it was proof that breaking Gamp's Law was possible.

So, during that first practical lesson of his fourth year, he stared long and hard at the hedgehog he was supposed to turn into a pincushion, visualised it, every part of it, particularly the feel of it, put all his concentration into willing it to happen—he didn't think about the precise length, the exact size or the specific amount of magic he was supposed to put in the spell versus the scale of it. He didn't think of the theory that had been stamped into his head for years now. The numbers involved didn't matter to him; he let go of it.

He simply had the image in his mind, and  _wanted_  it to happen. Concentrating without having a solid directive in mind, like whatever formulas McGonagall always wrote on the board, was a pretty big mental strain, and he could feel the back of his neck starting to sweat. But he clung to the image in perseverance, and after five minutes of intense focus, pictured the hedgehog quickly transforming into a pincushion.

It took him several tries, but with a fourth flick of his wand, the transfiguration came out as flawless.

Granted, he felt like he just ran a marathon right after the fact, and it probably would've been far less straining  _with_ the theory to help him (he had a sudden sharp ache between his temples, as if his nerves were being squeezed harshly) but it was the most direct way of doing things, and Harry tended to prefer the most direct way.

Though perhaps he should've waited before he pulled that trick off, considering he got it right with just a few tries which was more than a bit conspicuous. McGonagall was shocked but very pleased with him, and therefore found it prudent to reward him with  _more_ work.

When Hermione asked him how he accomplished it so quickly and he couldn't give her a satisfactory answer beyond, "Well, I kind of… I just _willed_  it to happen—" she ended up skewering him with her glares for the entirety of the lesson as she moved on to working on her homework.

Well, at the time, she wasn't  _that_ suspicious. She thought it highly unusual for him to excel so much, but in a way, she also seemed glad that he was making so much progress, reluctantly brushing it off as him just having his own method to it, seeing as how he still wasn't all that good with theory. Perhaps he finally realised his latent potential? Her own success prevented her from getting too irritated. Had she failed and had Harry been the only one to succeed, however, he imagines she wouldn't have let him off that easily. Nevertheless, she still kept a close eye on him during the rest of the day, but Harry waved it off, figuring she'd forget about it after Transfiguration.

Truthfully, this whole ordeal wouldn't have been a problem had Harry not gotten hungry halfway through History of Magic today and transfigured a prop of paper into an apple against his better judgement. It's the only trick he knows how to perform that breaks Gamp's Law, but it's hard to achieve anything beyond that; the Principal Exceptions were drilled into him so thoroughly through the past three years that it's difficult to overcome the subconscious block.

(It wasn't worth all the trouble, either. The apple still tasted like paper and the texture wasn't at all right, though it was still somewhat edible and at least hadn't poisoned him.)

No one saw him transfigure the paper, of course.

No one, aside from Hermione.

Harry didn't know exactly how much she saw, but from the wide-eyed, slack-jawed look he spotted a second later, she definitely saw enough.

And that's the reason why Harry leaves the classroom as if the devil is on his heels, heading straight to the Great Hall for lunch. Ron barely catches up with him, and unfortunately, Hermione is right behind him.

"Harry!" she calls as he quickly takes a seat next to Neville, greeting him quietly. Hermione sits down right next to him, out of breath, and looking pale. "Is there something you're not telling us?"

"What-what could I not be telling you?" Harry mumbles, ducking his head and shoving a sandwich in his mouth. Ron, sitting down across from them, glances from one to the other, utterly confused. Harry feels fortunate that he left the diary in his dorm—after yesterday's  _thing_ in the Owlery, he hasn't been around for some odd reason, though it proves fortunate for him. He wouldn't have been able to handle Hermione's withering looks and Tom's additional taunting about how much he messed up this time.

"That apple you had, during class," Hermione replies breathlessly, "where did you get it?"

This would've been the point where Harry usually fumbled around looking for an answer, after which Hermione would see completely through him, but he has learned quite a bit more about lying properly in the past year.

"Where did you think I got it?" he says in an attempt at deflection after swallowing down a large bite of his sandwich, trying to remain calm.

"Well," Hermione hesitates. "I thought, for a second, it looked like… like you transfigured it. Out of your paper."

Harry takes a deep breath through his nose, and makes himself frown, hoping it eyed puzzled enough. "That's impossible, though, isn't it? Gamp's Law and all that. I just grabbed it out of my bag—you must've missed it."

"Then why were you in such a panic to leave the class?" Hermione asks him shrewdly, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"I, er…" Damn. That old habit of panicking after being caught is something he needs to get rid of. Running out hadn't been the best of ideas. He looks around the Great Hall that's now filling up with students, avoiding Hermione's stare which grows more suspicious with the second. "I was just…"

It's right at that moment that his eyes lock on to something unexpected as they dart about in search of an exit strategy. Cedric Diggory catches his look as he walks towards the Hufflepuff table, smiles and waves at him. Harry blinks, but dazedly waves back.

Hermione follows his gaze, and her eyes almost bulge out of their sockets. Ron, on the other hand, just looks half-surprised and half-vindicated, as if he's merely stunned at his own accuracy, considering he brought up Cedric before as a potential love interest.

" _Harry_!"

"It's not what you think!" Harry hisses, his sandwich now entirely forgotten, and though he doesn't know exactly what Hermione is thinking, he knows it can't be very positive.

"What about  _T-O-M_ , mate?" Ron whispers back covertly, eyebrows raised. "'Sides, Diggory is as straight as a broom. You don't have a shot with him."

"Why didn't you just tell us, Harry?" Hermione adds. "First this whole Tom-business, who you still haven't told us anything about, and now this!" She shakes her head, exasperated. "You don't have to lie to us, Harry. You know you can trust us with anything."

"I told you, it's not—" Harry stops himself halfway through, then changes his mind. He's going to get caught up in a web of lies if he continues this. He has to offer them at least  _some_ truth—they're his best friends, for Merlin's sake. They've been through too much together, he owes them more than his deception. "Look, I'll explain everything after classes, somewhere private, okay? I'll tell you everything then. Right now, I just need some time to think."

Hermione gives him a long look before her shoulders slump and she sighs, admitting defeat, for now.

"That's settled, then," Ron says in a valiant attempt to ignore the tension. "Pass me the peanut butter, will you?"

* * *

Ancient Runes has its ups and downs. He doesn't like translating things, or the entire learning process of it, really. It's more straightforward than most magical theory—just stamp the runes into your head and memorise them until you can sing them in your sleep. Doesn't mean he has to like it, though. He has never been good with stamping theory into his head, he learns more through actual practice, which there's very little of during the lessons.

What he  _does_ enjoy about it, however, is how useful it could be should you ever be in need of it. Done right, runes can act as protective wards and enchantments for objects—most magical objects have runes inscribed into them, often being the source or containment of their power. Professor Babbling's tangents are sometimes hard to follow, but they're worth paying attention to when she's explaining how to enchant your own robes with runes to help protect against certain spells.

Harry usually sits next to Hermione during the class, which is also what makes it easier to grasp the theory; when there's something he overlooks or has a hard time understanding, she's always ready to give him some quick tutoring (even against his will, if she thinks it's necessary). Considering what happened during lunch, though, Harry feels it would be better if he sits alone that afternoon, still feeling guilty for all his secrecy, and takes a seat in the back of the class instead of near the front in his usual spot.

Professor Babbling, a petite woman in her forties with blond hair that nearly reaches her knees, immediately continues where the last lesson left off (Elemental Runes, as it so happens) without bothering to check student attendance, which she rarely does anyway. While Babbling is very strict and precise when it comes to her subject, she's far more lenient with the students themselves. Harry can't say he particularly likes her or favours her as a teacher, but he does respect her in a way.

"We've discussed the basics of Elemental Runes last lesson, if you'll recall," Babbling says, attentive brown eyes surveying the quiet classroom. "This topic in particular is what you'll be tested on during your exam period. Many of you weren't impressed with the concept of it, and I dare say you all seemed to get the gist of it fairly quickly, but it's far more complex and dangerous than it might seem. A single fire rune spelled incorrectly can blow up in your face, ensuring you'll never grow eyebrows again. There are many,  _many_ variations of these Elemental Runes that I'd like you to explore in the coming weeks—and you won't be doing it alone."

A partner project? Harry peers at Hermione, but she's not looking at him; Parvati, who has taken Harry's seat, is whispering quietly to her, probably already securing her place as Hermione's partner.

Blast. Who's he supposed to pair up with now?

The classroom is already filled with murmurs, students quickly seeking each other out—no one wants to end up alone—when Babbling quickly interrupts. "I think not!" she calls out, crossing her arms with an almost gleeful look. " _I'll_ be pairing you up."

A collective groan resounds through the room, which supports a very mixed class of students from all Houses, seeing as Ancient Runes is an elective and not many people have signed up for it. Harry feels a bit relieved. No pressure on him this way to find someone to partner with.

Babbling starts from the front of the class and works her way down. Hermione gets paired up with a Ravenclaw girl with bright red hair and freckles, and Parvati (to her misfortune) gets stuck with Pansy Parkinson. Harry watches quietly, most of the pairs seeming relatively content, while some look reluctant and others downright agitated. He hopes his own partner won't be difficult to work with.

When Babbling finally gets to him, however, Harry looks around, and realises he's the odd one out.

' _Brilliant.'_

"Well, Mr. Potter, it seems you are—"

The door of the classroom opens at that exact moment, and in struts Draco Malfoy without a care in the world, bag slung over his shoulder.

' _Oh no.'_ A cold dread slithers down his spine as he watches Babbling turn to Malfoy, her face lighting up with a pleased smile.  _'Anyone but_ him _.'_

"Professor," Harry starts in desperation, but she's not paying attention to him anymore.

"You have impeccable timing, Mr. Malfoy!" she says, ignoring the confused and slightly irritated expression on the Slytherin's face. "Mr. Potter here is in need of a partner for our upcoming project on Elemental Runes."

The speed in which Malfoy's face transforms from bemusement to revulsion would've been impressive to note, had Harry not been too busy impulsively standing up and protesting in earnest.

"You can't pair me up with  _him_!"

"For once, I agree," Malfoy snaps, throwing Harry a hateful glare. "I'm  _not_  working with Potter. He couldn't find his way out of a paper bag, let alone translate Elemental Runes."

"Sorry, boys, but you have no choice in the matter," Babbling announces cheerily, preventing Harry's sharp retort which is balancing on the tip of his tongue. "Now, please take a seat next to your partner, before I start deducting House points from both of you."

Looking like he'd rather spend the afternoon feeding Blast-Ended Skrewts, Malfoy finally makes his way over, dragging his bag behind him and dropping it unceremoniously on top of the desk next to Harry's, sitting down and making it a point to scoot away from him as far as possible.

"Childish prat," Harry can't help but mutter at the display, at which Malfoy gives him an indignant glower.

"Hypocrite," he replies angrily. " _You can't pair me up with him_ —" Malfoy quotes several octaves higher than Harry's voice actually is, "—weren't you saying that just ten seconds ago?"

"I don't sound like that."

"I bet you do for your boyfriend."

At this point Harry is starting to consider kicking Malfoy's chair out from under him. "Will you shut up about that already?"

Malfoy opens his mouth in what's probably going to be an infuriating response, but Professor Babbling cuts him off with a warning, having just started explaining their new project. Malfoy clenches his jaw and does as he's told, staring out ahead of him and seething in silence. It's remarkable how well Malfoy can balance looking condescending  _and_ angry at the same time.

Minutes of quiet pass, neither of them really paying attention to Babbling and instead trying to ignore the other person. It quickly grows tiresome for Harry, who'd much rather confront problems instead of ignore them as he casts a small glance in Malfoy's direction.

 _Someone_  has to be the bigger person out of the two of them; they're stuck with each other and there's nothing to be done about it. Harry can't have Malfoy mucking up his grade just because he's too immature to let this go. If his mother could stand being around Snape, he can at least give Malfoy some leeway and tolerate him for the time being. It won't do him any good to throw a tantrum—he needs to be better than that,  _wants_ to be better than that.

"Look, we agreed on a truce, right?" he says in an attempt to reason with him. "Could you at least  _try_ to be civil for longer than ten seconds?"

"Need I remind you I saved your life last year?" Malfoy sneers with a scowl, the memory making Harry grimace. "You owe me a debt, Potter—you don't get to tell me what to do."

"Fine," Harry snarls back, turning away and opening up his textbook instead, flipping the pages to where they left off in the last lesson. "Be an arse about it if you want, it doesn't matter to me. Don't know why  _you_ bloody care so much who I'm supposedly snogging anyway."

"I don't," Malfoy states icily, tearing his gaze away and looking towards the teacher again.

"Then why do you—"

"Old habits die hard, alright?" comes the heated interruption. "Now stop interrogating me!"

Harry shifts his head back to stare at Malfoy, brows briefly furrowed in puzzlement at the rather defensive answer. Usually the git is more level-headed than this, if a bit melodramatic, but not hot-headed. What's got his knickers all twisted? It has to be more than just the "habit" being hard to break, or he wouldn't have responded so aggressively.

Pondering the uncharacteristic reactions for a moment, it finally dawns on Harry. "Malfoy, do you… do you  _miss_ making fun of me?"

The Slytherin turns to him like the coiling of a snake who's preparing to lunge, eyes set in an unspoken and stubborn challenge. "So what if I do?"

Harry honestly doesn't know what to say. "I'm not sure if I should be flattered or not."

"Don't be. It's not a compliment, idiot."

"You'll have to get used to it either way, if you want to get a good grade on this project."

Malfoy mumbles something under his breath, too soft for Harry to hear, but something he's willing to bet isn't complimentary all the same. No more words are exchanged as both boys finally turn to Babbling, who's in the midst of her explanation. They catch only the last part of it, and Malfoy turns to a fellow Slytherin sitting in the row next to theirs, asking for a reiteration of their assignment.

On the face of it, it doesn't sound very complicated. The objective is to not only to write an essay that's in some way related to Elemental Runes, but also to display a more practical application of it by way of enchanting an object with runes relevant to the essay. It's why this assignment is a partner project; one person could focus on the essay, while the other focuses on the enchantment which has to be performed in front of the class in three weeks.

To elaborate further on Malfoy's prompting, the Slytherin student recites an example Babbling gave: making an essay on the properties and uses of ice runes, and enchanting a goblet to make whatever liquid poured into it freeze instantly.

It  _should_ be a walk in the park, and would've been had Harry been paired up with Hermione, but with Malfoy as his partner, the minute they start discussing which Elemental Rune they should focus on, there is an almost immediate disagreement.

Malfoy wants to write on water runes, deriving his idea for the enchantment from Babbling's example, proposing to enchant a cup so that it automatically refills itself with water whenever it's emptied. Harry thinks it a boring way to approach the assignment, and is adamant on using fire runes instead, as well as enchanting a sword to make it a  _flaming_ sword. A bit extravagant, maybe, but at least more on the creative side.

"Why would anyone be in want of a flaming sword?" Malfoy scoffs, turning up his nose at the idea. "No one uses swords anymore, Potter. A cup of self-refilling water is far more useful."

"It's also way too obvious," Harry replies critically. "I thought you Slytherins were the ambitious types—you really want to enchant something as dull as a cup of water?"

"Yes, ambitious, not  _ridiculous_. I realise that to someone in possession of your pea-sized brain a cup of water might not seem like much, but it's a far more difficult enchantment than setting a bloody sword on fire. Where do you think the water from the refill comes from?"

Harry shrugs, brows furrowing in frustration. "I don't know— _magic_?"

"No," Malfoy snaps, looking equally frustrated, "it's not just ' _magic_ ', you complete simpleton. It involves using a time rune together with the water rune in your enchantment, simultaneously. Every time the cup is emptied, the time rune resets the state of the cup and the water returns, so to speak."

A beat of silence.

"That's still magic," Harry points out matter-of-factly, Malfoy groaning and letting his forehead drop on the table, Harry looking on in brief amusement before deciding to get serious again lest they get absolutely nothing done within the next two hours. "So you basically turn back time inside the cup?"

"Oh, so you're not  _entirely_ thick-headed after all?" Malfoy says with a tone dripping of derision. "If we succeed—and that's a big if, with you as a partner—we're guaranteed a perfect mark. Time runes are the most difficult runes you could learn, even though their actual use is very limited and only works on objects to a certain extent. It's how Time-Turners are able to contain an Hour-Reversal Charm and stabilise… are you  _listening_?"

Harry blinks, having long zoned out after Malfoy's offhanded insult. "Not really. I still say the flaming sword is better."

He never knew Malfoy was this book-smart. Most of the time he sees the heir sneering about the material discussed in classes (aside from Potions, where he just  _does_ things) instead of contemplating it as he's doing now. Or, conversely, he's too busy sneering at his fellow students.

Though Harry would rather not admit it, he supposes Malfoy might have more than just a ball of disdain towards the rest of the world stuffed in that bleach-blond head of his.

Harry at least derives a bit of entertainment from watching Malfoy's cheeks burn up red in barely-contained anger at his dismissive response, and finally offers a compromise. "Okay, okay, look, I was wrong earlier—you're definitely ambitious, way too ambitious. We should stick to enchantments we can actually do. How about we write an essay about how some runes can cancel others out? You can have your cup of water, and I'll have a flaming knife, and we could show how the water can't put the fire out as an example."

Malfoy gives him a long look, the ire slowly fading from his face as he actually seems to consider the proposition. "I'm truly astonished, Potter," he eventually answers. "That idea is almost half-decent."

"Does that mean you agree?"

"I don't want to waste any more time attempting to educate you since it's turning out to be utterly futile, so yes, fine, we'll do that."

He would've celebrated this small victory, had they then not spent the rest of the time arguing about who's doing what. By the end of the lesson, at least, they're finally decided on Harry collecting most of the raw information for the essay so that Malfoy can write most of it, with Harry providing some concrete examples of runes that will nullify each other's effects. Harry's opinion on Malfoy has improved slightly during most of it, but as they wrap things up and put their things back in their bags, the last bit of small talk Malfoy actually attempts to make with him almost obliterates the good impression Harry got of Malfoy's intelligence.

"So, this boyfriend of yours." At Harry's intense glare the Slytherin arches his eyebrows, unimpressed while he continues, "is he anyone I know?"

Harry's agitation softens to make place for confusion. "No, why would you?"

"If he's  _really_ a wizard who's superior to me in any way, which I highly doubt, I think I would've heard of him. Let me guess, he's some mudblood nobody?"

That hits a nerve, not only because of the derogatory term itself, but because it's aimed at Tom. Anger flares so quickly Harry is scarcely aware of how much his fist is balling, knuckles yearning to collide with Malfoy's stupid mouth and knock a tooth out.

"Don't call him that," Harry warns, posture now rigid.

"Or  _what_?" Malfoy mocks, folding his arms with a slight tilt of his head. "You think you can scare me, Potter?"

"You sure you want to piss off the wizard who defeated Voldemort twice?"

He flinches at that, but doesn't back away. "Dumb luck."

Harry is now in serious consideration on whether he shouldn't just hex Malfoy to oblivion and get it over with, but he spots Hermione across the classroom looking at him, and at making eye-contact shaking her head slowly. Of course she's right; causing a scene right in front of a Professor can only end badly for him, and Malfoy isn't worth the detention. His own fiercely defensive attitude almost surprises him—he always makes it a point of ignoring unpleasant comments, but he wasn't able to hold himself back listening to Malfoy insult Tom. Who does the prat think he is?

"You should know by now that blood doesn't matter, Malfoy," Harry says coolly, forcing himself to keep his composure as he picks up his bag and slings it over his shoulder, "seeing as how Hermione outclasses you in every way possible. You better start getting used to it— _pure blood_ means nothing." With that he stalks past the blond, shoulder knocking into Malfoy's as he leaves, not bothering to catch his reaction either.

Hermione meets him at the doorway, looking somewhat concerned. She lets him fume in silence, however, and they only exchange a few words of parting as she splits from him near the staircases, leaving for Arithmancy while Harry wanders toward the outdoors, having finished all his classes for the day. Ron has Divination, as he remembers correctly, so he's on his own for a while.

* * *

Outside, in the midst of October, the weather is expectedly windy, but not so much as to deter him from taking a walk. Harry has a lot on his mind now that it has cooled down after his spat with Malfoy—what is he going to tell Ron and Hermione? He promised Tom to wait until he felt alright with it before he revealed the big secret, but he can't keep up this charade for much longer. Hermione is already suspecting something, and if he persists then it might start aggravating Ron as well. He really doesn't want to alienate his two best friends, even if Tom might get upset with him.

Furthermore, his two friends are both privy to the name of his crush. Even Ron would instantly figure it out, and though he doesn't think they'll rat him out to Tom, the prospect still makes him nervous. He'll just have to trust that they won't make it too obvious once they meet Tom, if Harry can convince the latter to show up at all. He  _has_ to ask, at the very least.

Having decided on a course of action (the only one he can take at this point, really), Harry wanders off towards the willow tree near the lake that would obscure what he's about to do, not many other students being outside due to the cloudy sky. Moving down under the drooping branches and leaves, he reaches into his bag at the same time, fingers feeling around for the familiar touch of a leather cover for just a moment before he finds it, pulling it out.

Eyeing his surroundings cautiously once more and making sure no one is within hearing range, he looks down at the diary, pushing away his reservations on talking to the one person who has been a big factor in his restlessness the past few days.

Taking a deep breath, he murmurs, "Tom?"

As if he's been standing there all along, Harry nearly jumps when he looks to his right and sees Tom, gazing at him with an inscrutable expression. His eyes are a bit narrowed, a calculating look to them, and he doesn't greet Harry as he would usually, instead remaining silent.

Even Harry, who has become used to staring over the years, feels anxious under the weight of Tom's wordless examination. "I wanted to talk about—"

"Granger and Weasley, yes, I'm well aware." His tone is almost cuttingly aloof, devoid of any particular emotion. The only thing that betrays a hint of it is the slight wrinkle between his brows. "And  _you_ are well aware of my answer; we've discussed this before."

"Well, let's discuss it again," Harry persists, starting to feel more and more like Tom is trying to provoke him by being deliberately standoffish. "Hermione is suspicious enough, I don't want to keep lying to her and Ron."

Tom holds his stare for just a few more seconds before he looks away, peering to the Great Lake instead. He says nothing—seconds pass and the silence persists, until Harry's fuse finally blows, having been rolled out by his guilt towards his friends, lined up by Malfoy's priggish behaviour, and ultimately lit by Tom.

"I don't know what I did to upset you," he starts hotly, "and frankly I don't care either, because I'm pretty sure I don't deserve it."

The long sigh he gets as a response does nothing to even his temper, but the words that follow are even more incendiary. "I do not like liars, Harry," Tom speaks without looking at him still. "I distinctly remember giving you this warning before, and yet you continue to lie to me. I'm rather disappointed in you."

"Lie? I have no idea what you're talking about—why would I lie to you?" Harry replies fervently, even as he felt redness creeping up his neck, memories of awkward cover-ups and Cedric's friendly smile flashing through his thoughts.

Tom's eyes now finally turn to Harry, appearing a pitch black under the shadows of the tree as they pierce into Harry's green. "You don't actually care for Diggory, do you?"

Harry swears that for a moment, just a moment, his heart is frozen in time before it picks up the beat again, faster than before.

There it is. He could hang his head now and confess, he could give up the game and Tom would forgive him—but what comes after that? Is he just to be toyed with, whenever Tom fancies, his feelings dismissed and discarded? Is he really going to let Tom have his victory? He doesn't want to be seen as just a kid or a pupil anymore, he wants to find ground between them they can stand on as equals, and if he lets Tom dictate his actions now as if a dissatisfied parent scolding their child, that's never going to happen.

So he sets his jaw, meeting Tom's look head-on, and says, "It's none of your business."

From the minute widening of his eyes, it's evidently not the response Tom was expecting. Harry can't tell whether he's made a mistake or not, but he stands tall and knows he cannot back away now—not even Tom's intense stare can change that, even if it's starting to make him sweat.

" _Oh_?" Tom replies simply, taking a step forward in one smooth motion, almost snake-like, his poise changing from cold to something almost predatory. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were implying that you have a  _right_  to lie to me, even after everything I've done for you." The proximity is dizzying, Tom standing a mere few inches away from Harry now, and entirely unaffected by it, where Harry's lungs have forgotten how to function properly. "But we both know you're not that ungrateful, are you, Harry?"

He doesn't reply; he is too occupied with watching Tom's slender fingers reach up to his face, eyes squeezing shut when he feels the tips of those cold digits caress his cheek the way a librarian would stroke the spine of his books—and what an open book Harry is. He'd curse himself for it, if he could.

"Let's put this silly quarrel behind us before it escalates, shall we?" Tom continues, and the fingers trail down, as if following an invisible line on Harry's face. "You can tell me the truth, Harry. I could not care less who you're involved with, but I detest being deceived. If you confess to me now, it will all be…" They follow his jawline, down to his chin, the pad of a thumb stroking the edge of his lower lip, while a soft breath whispers into his ear, " _forgiven_."

Harry's eyes snap open, and amidst all the glowing warmth and the sharp tingles and the hope and the longing, there's a boiling heat giving way to something that puts a blaze in his veins and a fire in his gaze.

He slaps Tom's hand away, torn between so many different emotions that tug and jerk at his heart and mind, and snaps, "I don't need your forgiveness, because I've done nothing wrong. And yes, I do have a right to lie to you if I want to—I have a right to my own secrets. Maybe if you hadn't been such a… such a…"

It's the first time he's seen Tom so taken aback, his surprise only evident from his eyes bordering on a deep irritation. "Such a  _what_?" he hisses, eyes narrowing to slits.

Harry grits his teeth for a moment, finding himself truly angry at Tom (which is starting to become a more common occurrence lately), the young man's completely unjustified agitation irking him to the point of dislike. He's never disliked Tom in any way before, but his attitude now is impossible for him to even tolerate.

"If you hadn't been such an utter  _bastard_ and had left well enough alone, we wouldn't be having this argument!" Harry eventually blurts out, face positively red, and not out of shyness this time. "Maybe I like Cedric, maybe I don't, but you're not going to force me into giving an answer when I don't want to."

There is a single moment that lasts no longer than a second when he sees Tom's shoulders tense, and he expects a verbal shredding to follow, when instead the opposite happens. Tom's brows furrow, and for the first time, he looks wounded.

"Is that what you think of me?" The quiet tone of Tom's voice pains him far more than any scolding or reprimand could've, and in an instant Harry forgets his resolve, mortified for lashing out the way he did.

"No! No, I just… I'm sorry, I didn't… I didn't mean that," he stammers, the guilt pouring over him like an ice cold bucket of water. "Look, I'm not-I'm not good with emotional stuff. I don't know how to, you know, put it in words, and pushing me into it isn't going to help." Harry looks down at his feet, feeling too embarrassed to face Tom now.

He wants to say more than he can articulate, about how he doesn't want to keep lying about Cedric because how could he ever fall in love with anyone but Tom, but he's never learned how to talk about things like this before, never learned how to open up when it really matters.

The silence that persists for more than half a minute is starting to make him antsy, and when he finally works up the nerve to peek at Tom's face, he sees it has changed into a contemplative expression now.

"These friends of yours, can they keep a secret?"

Hope flickers inside his chest, a deep relief smoothing over his anxiety. "Yeah, you can trust them."

Tom nods slowly, his gaze surveying Harry's face as if in search for something. Harry nearly winces when he suddenly feels a cold palm against the side of his warm neck, but despite the contrast in temperature, he can feel his skin heating up under Tom's touch that covers the pulse point on his throat, and it feels as if oxygen has been cut off from his windpipe.

Harry wants to speak, but the tender look aimed at  _him_ , as if he's the only thing that matters, kills the words on his tongue and he ends staring with his mouth half-open. Never has anyone looked at him like that before; he's received scorn and admiration alike, but never this warm attention single-mindedly focused on just him. Harry feels as if he might melt from the inside out, and he wants to reach out and do _something_ , to touch, or embrace, or kiss—

"Then you can tell them," Tom says softly, and for the first time, Harry thinks he might not be deluded, that he might actually have a chance, that Tom could actually feel the same way.

He can't say any of these things, however, and instead mumbles an almost inaudible, "Alright," before he inhales deeply, trying to calm the dizzying pace at which his heart is pounding against his ribs.

Tom smiles lightly, his eyes flit down to Harry's lips for just a split-second—Harry thinks he might not survive—before he pulls his hand back, and vanishes, as if he'd never been in the first place.

Harry leans back against the willow tree, and slides onto the ground.

* * *

' _Oh, Tom_ ,' faux-Dumbledore sighs inside his head,  _'I do hope you realise how attached you really are by now.'_

He ignores it, having become used to ignoring it, even as the words coax a twinge of annoyance from him and he's tempted to reply despite knowing it will get him nowhere.

Tom's scheme to have Harry wrapped around his finger has been absolutely flawless. After the boy's outburst, Tom realised that any further attempts at coaxing the truth out of him would be ineffective, if not counter-productive. Instead of reacting with similar spite, he played the role of injured friend, which worked perfectly in securing his place at Harry's side.

It's nothing but a game, is what he often tells himself nowadays. A simple game to entertain him for the time being, ultimately meaningless and inconsequential.

' _You're quite the magnificent liar, to deceive your own mind so thoroughly.'_ faux-Dumbledore muses.  _'Though I am not at all displeased with this budding relationship between you two. Your inner landscape has finally gained some colour!'_

As much as he would like to disregard the voice's ramblings, he cannot deny that there is a change palpable within himself. Where once he saw only dark shades of grey when retreated into the diary like this, he lately finds himself noticing specks of sunset colours with hues of blue overlapping, a brightness and light feeling pulsing throughout.

It certainly has nothing to do with Harry, however—it's merely the delayed result of the increase in his power. Tom does not get attached to people. They are weak, unreliable, and often inferior to him in most ways; the notion of him getting attached to this boy whose skill is slightly above average at best, and this boy then being able to influence him, is laughable.

' _If that is the case, then might you explain to me why you were so very put out when you saw Harry seeming to enjoy Cedric's company?'_

It's becoming more and more difficult to ignore. He was not "put out", he was merely irritated that Harry thought he was clever enough to fool him, otherwise he couldn't have cared less.

' _Why waste precious time in needless denial when you would be far more content in admitting your fondness for the boy? You_ are  _capable of being fond of something, Nagini is evidence of—'_

Nagini is loyal to me, and only me. She doesn't lie, unlike Potter.

' _Come now, Tom,'_ faux-Dumbledore urges him kindly,  _'Let us not pretend you don't enjoy the challenge. How long has it been since anyone stood against you?'_

That has nothing to do with this—I am not that easily won over.

' _For these past one and a half years, you've watched him grow, and you recognise his potential that is so similar to yours but different in its core. Denial will do nothing but harm,'_ faux-Dumbledore comments, and had he been corporeal, Tom imagines he'd be shaking his head right about now.  _'Some day these games you play will have to end, my dear boy, and you might not be on the winning side.'_

Tom stares off into his mental landscape, jaw clenched in lieu of a response, and glares at two dots of green staring right back at him.


	17. Chapter 17

Ron tells her not to worry with as much patience as he can manage, which isn't a lot, and for once he is the more sensible one. This is Harry they're talking about—if he's keeping secrets, he must have his reasons for it, and they'll just have to trust him, right? Besides, he promised to explain it to them later on in the evening. She's stressing herself out over nothing.

Hermione can't see it that way. All the little oddities that have accumulated over time have amassed into this giant question mark, and her anxiety is eating away at her. Ever since she parted with Harry after Ancient Runes, it's all she can think about, her thoughts so fixated on the mystery that she even makes a mistake during Arithmancy that messes up her whole calculation and forces her to start all over again.

It's not unusual for her to be concerned like this, but something about this situation in particular is different. Tiny pieces, part of a little Rubik's Cube she doesn't know how to solve.

Harry's sudden progression in Transfiguration wouldn't have bothered her, had there been an explanation for it, but as far as she can tell, there isn't. At the end of their third year, Harry could barely manage to turn his rat into a goblet—now, he can transfigure a hedgehog into a pincushion near-flawlessly! Then there's also this Tom figure that appears to have suddenly shown up into Harry's life, and whom she has yet to hear anything about, even though he has practically been the talk of the school for the past few days now.

Not knowing the story behind these things irks her endlessly. She does trust Harry, but being left in the dark does nothing for her state of mind that's starting to overwork itself with questions as it keeps building up pressure until it turns into a dull throb in the back of her head.

When the bell signals the end of Arithmancy and thus the end of the school day, Hermione is the first to leave the classroom, in such a hurry to Gryffindor Tower that she almost trips over her own shoes and falls into a suit of armour. Ignoring the sneers and laughter of a group of Ravenclaws standing nearby, she straightens her back and tries for a calmer but still appropriately swift pace.

"Hermione!" she hears Ron call after her, but neither slows down nor looks behind her. "Would you wait up?" A tug on her sleeve notifies her that she's been caught up with, but she keeps her eyes straight ahead, singularly focused on that burning question sizzling through her synapses.

They arrive at the stairs and start the climb, Ron sighing deeply beside her. "Honestly, what do you think Harry could be hiding from us anyway? That he's got You-Know-Who locked up in his trunk? Or—"

"Whatever it is," Hermione cuts him off coolly, "I have a bad feeling about it. It's not like Harry to keep secrets."

"I bet it's just something stupid about his boyfriend."

"But what if it's not?" she persists. "What if—"

"For Merlin's sake, please don't play the  _'what if'_  game," Ron groans as they near the top. "That never ends well."

"We have an obligation as his friends to make sure he's alright, Ronald!" Hermione exclaims, stopping just a few steps short from the landing and turning to him with a deep frown. "I would really rather prefer to err on the side of caution instead of risking something bad happening to him."

Ron opens his mouth to retort, but is forced to change his mind at seeing the stubborn look on Hermione's face. "Fine, alright, let's go."

Climbing up to the Fat Lady's portrait, it swings open after Hermione hastily recites the password, and the duo quickly move into the common room. It's filled with the usual buzz of students having just finished their classes, making it a chore to look for Harry.

Hermione quickly weaves through the small cliques scattered about, ducking once to avoid a pen hurling through the air and becoming briefly impressed with herself when she instinctively slides out of the way of a Fred Weasley who's mid-fall, having been messing around with his brother. Said tall person instead barrels straight into Ron who curses loudly behind her, naturally.

"Sorry, Hermione," Fred says cheerfully even as his weight is seemingly suffocating his younger brother. "Nearly crashed into you there."

"Have you seen Harry?" she asks anxiously as George comes to stand beside her, helping his twin up with a hand, who then shoves him playfully. Ron, red-faced and a mess on the floor, cusses at both of them.

"Upstairs, I think," George replies, pointing up as if to emphasize his answer. "He looked distracted. Didn't even hear us when we called out to him, did he, Fred?"

"That's right, George." His twin nods gravely. "I think we ought to teach Mr. Potter a lesson about what happens to people who ignore us."

"Dungbomb in his trunk?"

"What about a simple but effective Ton-Tongue Toffee?"

Hermione doesn't stick around to hear what the twins jokingly plan as their revenge, instead moving on and heading for the stairs leading up to the boys' dorms when the person she's been looking for appears at the top of them, coming down with a troubled look on his face.

"Harry!" she calls, Ron catching up to her as Harry glances down at them and his mouth twitches, in a minuscule shift of expression she barely catches but catches all the same, even though she can't define it.

"Hey," he mutters as he continues heading down the stairs while avoiding eye-contact, something about his posture tense in a way Hermione hasn't seen before. Or at least, she and Ron have never been the cause of it, until now. She only ever saw Harry this reticent towards other people.

"So…" Ron starts as Harry fidgets in front of them, scratching the back of his neck and shifting around as if he's itching to run. "We need to talk, I guess?"

"Not here," Hermione hisses, looking around at the other students surrounding them. "Some place more private, preferably."

"Well, I don't know where—" Harry starts, but stops suddenly, and Hermione just about catches him looking to the left, eyes focusing on something she can't see.

"Harry?"

"Follow me," is the only thing he says as he starts walking towards the portrait hole. Hermione and Ron exchange puzzled looks before doing so, both wondering what has gotten into Harry to make him act so strange.

As they walk behind him, they both ask him, several times, what their destination is. His answer remains the same, unchanging even while the urgency and anxiety in their questions grow.

"Just follow."

And follow they do, if only because they trust him. They don't have to go very far either as Harry leads them to a corridor on the seventh floor, on the left side, stopping in front of a wall opposite to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy depicting a horrid attempt at trolls ballet.

And then, inexplicably, Harry starts pacing in front of the wall.

"Harry," Ron says slowly, as if he's speaking to an insane person while he watches his best friend, "you alright, mate? You've been acting a bit... weird."

Harry doesn't respond and keeps pacing.

Ron turns to Hermione, mouthing an emphatic, _'He's gone mad'_ , prompting her to scowl disapprovingly at him, even as her own distress increases. What has gotten into their best friend? Did everything that happened last year get to him? Leave a mark on him, mentally? Maybe it would be a good idea to coax him to see Madam Pomfrey, just to make sure he—

Something cracks, like the scraping of old wood over stone, the ominous sound reverberating throughout the long hallway. Three pairs of eyes focus on the bare tiles in front of them that gradually starts morphing, shadows outlining the transformation.

Just like that, as if it had been under the cover of an Invisibility Charm, a door appears in the wall Harry has been pacing in front of, and all three of them can do nothing more but stare in silent shock. Even Harry has frozen in front of the door, looking quite baffled at his own doing.

"What in Merlin's beard just happened?" Ron exclaims, completely slack-jawed. "Did you do that on purpose?"

"Uh…" Harry turns to them and blinks sheepishly. "I guess?"

"You guess?" Hermione repeats shrilly, feeling her blood pressure spike. "You just-and you-and now... oh, for god's sake, just explain what you did!"

"It's the Room of Requirement," he answers quickly, recognising it would not be wise to test Hermione's patience now. "Let's just get inside and I'll explain everything, okay?" He moves towards the thick, sturdy wooden door, opening it by turning the knob to reveal a very simple room inside.

Four large, dark brown chairs are in the middle of it, in front of a lit fireplace, facing each other. Most of the lighting come from the torches hanging off the walls as the windows are small and dark curtains have blocked the view from the outside, leaving the entire room somewhat dimly-lit. There's no other furniture, and the room itself is smaller than what you'd expect. A very private place, like a little secret hiding spot hidden behind tons of hard wall.

Harry wanders inside first, and Ron and Hermione follow with wary curiosity. Hermione assumes from the name that the 'Room of Requirement' is a magical room that shifts depending on the user's need. Harry probably asked for a room to talk in, though there is a great curiosity on her part to know how this room works exactly and how it knows what someone wants. It must be able to read minds, since Harry didn't say anything.

The notion is difficult to grasp; even the Sorting Hat needs direct contact with the head to read someone's mind. How is the room doing this? Or is it because they are inside the castle, which means they are by extension in direct contact with the room itself? That would make the most sense, but it is still a very peculiar bit of magic.

Hermione tries not to let her questions and observations about the room distract her too much, when she notices there are four chairs. There are only three of them, so they would 'require' only three chairs. Are they expecting someone else?

She looks at Harry with narrowed eyes, watching him sit down and brush a hand through his hair, appearing quite nervous. She sits down right across from him, noting briefly to herself how comfortable the chair is, before she crosses her arms and gives her friend a very stern look.

Ron sits down in the chair next to Harry, looking every bit as reluctant to be there as Harry is.

"Well then," Hermione breaks the silence curtly, "explain."

* * *

Harry takes a deep breath, and wishes fiercely he was somewhere else, but under Hermione's demanding gaze there is no escape. He's kept this secret for long enough, and hopes they'll forgive him for it eventually.

Tom in the meantime is standing silently in front of the softly crackling fireplace, arms folded over his chest, unmoving. For the first time Harry notices that the light isn't hindered by Tom's form; there is no shadow. Instead there's something very faintly translucent about his body, the vividness of the fire a stark contrast to the almost colourless appearance of the Slytherin. He looks like a ghost.

There's a sadness and solemness and coldness about it, like the wind outside taking away dead leaves fallen from trees. Harry feels that if he would reach out to touch him, his fingers would slip right through him, like smoke.

"During History of Magic," he starts, eventually tearing his gaze away from Tom, and he can see Hermione tense, waiting with bated breath. "I broke Gamp's Law."

It would've been fascinating to watch the twists and turns in her expression, knowing that this is knowledge being torn apart inside her head, and to Hermione, knowledge is everything. But he can't linger on it. If he waits for her response, he knows she'll ask a million questions that he doesn't want to answer right now. He wants to tell the story his way.

"I didn't do it on my own, I'm not nearly smart enough or talented enough for that. The way I broke Gamp's Law is the same way I got so much better at Transfiguration; I found a really good tutor."

Ron opens his mouth to cut in, but Harry shakes his head, and forges on, feeling the sweat break out on the back of his neck as he does so, because even as Hermione is shocked by his words, Harry can see the cogs in her mind furiously turning as she absorbs everything.

"He's been helping me for a while. A really long while, actually. I would've told you about him before, but he didn't want me to until now. I never meant to lie to you for so long, but I couldn't force him to meet you either. It's just—"

"It's Tom, isn't it? Your tutor?" Hermione interrupts, that glint in her eye she always gets when she's on the verge of unravelling a secret, seeming breathless as her mind races. "That's why… Merlin, that's why you said his name before, during Lupin's class with the boggart—I'd forgotten all about it! Was he helping you even back then?"

Harry sighs, knowing there is no escape from Hermione's brilliance, and nods. "I met him during our second year." And he waits, because he knows that if anyone could connect the dots from that statement, it's Hermione.

Half a minute later, he's proven right.

She looks up at him, eyes wide like saucers, and whispers, "The diary? Tom Marvolo Riddle? But how could it possibly be the same person? That diary is fifty years old and we never… how…."

"Very good," Tom murmurs nonchalantly, still staring into the fire. "You have an excellent memory, Granger."

From the dumbstruck look in her eyes that dart to Tom's back as well as Ron's flabbergasted expression, Harry figures he's finally decided to show himself.

"What the bloody hell..." Ron almost swears, the colour drained from his face as his hands are clutching the armrests of his chair, knuckles white. "What is going on here?!"

Hermione, on her part, resembles a statue. "Tom Riddle," she whispers. "The one who owned the diary?"

There is, though there shouldn't be, a moment of uncertainty for Harry as he waits for Tom to answer. He doesn't know why, but the uneasiness that clutches his stomach is making the anticipation tenser than it needs to be. Finally, he is rid of the secrecy and the lies—he should feel relieved to have it taken off his chest.

So why, as he looks at the back of Tom's head, does he feel as if he has made some terrible mistake?

Tom turns around, with a smile as warm and inviting as the fire he's standing in front of, and Hermione's shock seems to melt right out of her.

"Yes, the diary is mine. As for how, let's say that the diary owns me just as much as I own it," Tom replies cryptically, and for a moment Harry is worried Ron's brain might be on the verge of imploding on itself as the redhead sags back into his chair, seeming to have given up on figuring it out.

Hermione, however, is still in that place between bedazzlement and deep pondering, a wrinkle between her brows that might end up becoming permanent from how fiercely she's scowling. Her eyes flit to Harry, who doesn't really know what to say or what expression to make, instead scratching the back of his head with an awkward motion, looking away.

"You are bound to it?" she attempts after a silence that felt far too lengthy, Tom's smile turning almost a bit condescending, though Harry doubts she notices it. The little details of Tom's face can change so subtly that it took Harry years to confidently make out the differences, and he is quite certain that it's only because he is allowed to. Tom doesn't show anything he doesn't want people to see.

"In a way," he confirms, turning around to face the three of them now, hands comfortably sunken into the pockets of his trousers.

Hermione's head snaps back to Harry so suddenly that he's almost startled, especially so when he sees how angry she looks, lips pressed together in a harsh, thin line.

"What?" Harry almost squeaks, squirming uncomfortably in his seat underneath her glare. He knows he's done something very wrong, but he can't think of what it could be.

"You saw it in a newspaper, did you?" she hisses venomously. "You were just curious, were you? Harry, I can't believe _you lied to my face like that_!"

He resists the urge to cover his ears. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

"When you asked me for advice in the library about writing Sirius a letter?" At the still clueless look on Harry's face, she grows only more agitated. "Right before summer! The twenty-fifth of May? It had rained the day before and Ron had borrowed my Charms book. I asked you about where he was because I was looking for him, and you said he was probably in the Great Hall, stuffing his face with something—"

"Merlin, do you have a Pensieve in your head?" Ron exclaims, looking almost as frightened as Harry is with the accuracy of her memory. It's no wonder she burns through books like Ron burns through food if she can remember things so clearly.

Wonderment aside, though, Harry now understands what she's referencing. Back when Tom had locked himself away, and Harry had been looking for more information about how to help him, he'd approached Hermione. In hindsight, maybe he shouldn't have.

Hermione looks slightly flattered but still angry, taking a deep breath through her nostrils. "I remember that very specifically because it's the first time you actually asked me for advice, but if I knew you'd been lying to me… I'm very disappointed with you, Harry." She doesn't wait for the apology that's on the edge of his tongue, and instead turns back to Tom, who has been watching very attentively the entire time. "He asked me about objects that could store memories, as well as objects that could store souls. I suppose you would be one of the two?"

From the way Tom glances at him, the briefest narrowing of his eyes, Harry thinks he's displeased with that bit of information. Then again, he did go behind the Slytherin's back to look up information on him, but what did Tom expect? The one time he tries asking directly he was shot down, and Harry's innate curious streak can't be satisfied with that.

"Indeed, I am one of the two," Tom says, looking back to Hermione with a charming smile. To her credit, she doesn't fawn over him like she did with Lockhart—she was quite a bit younger and more impressionable at twelve—but from the fluttering eyelashes and pleased look Harry figures the charm worked. He also notices Tom doesn't give an actual answer, though Hermione seems to overlook this. "My original self created me fifty years ago, and I'm afraid I don't know what has become of him since. I didn't interact with many people during that time."

Hermione doesn't seem to be able to hold eye-contact with him for very long, and Harry can't fault her for that. Tom's gaze can be very piercing at times. "Do you know why you were created?" she asks carefully, and for a moment Harry is startled, and then irritated with himself for not ever thinking of that question.

He supposes he's been thinking of Tom too much of a real person to think of it. He wouldn't ask anyone else why they were 'created' either.

Tom is silent for a moment, scrutinising Hermione carefully (she shifts in her seat, staring down at her skirt and straightening it nervously) before responding. "I haven't the slightest idea. Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity to speak to my original. He hid the diary away the moment it was created, though evidently not well enough to not be found."

"I see." Hermione nods, then looks at Harry again, who is now wary of her stares and wonders if there's something else he's done wrong but can't remember. "Well, I think Harry's very lucky to have found you. You've been a very good influence on him." Oh, that knowing gleam in her eyes and the teasing little smile Harry doesn't like, even less than her anger. It puts him on edge.

"I'm glad to hear that," Tom responds gracefully, taking a few steps away from the fireplace and coming to stand next to Harry's chair. Harry peers up at him with a suspicious look, tensing in his seat. Tom is either oblivious, or ignoring it as his hand moves to clasp the boy's shoulder. "Harry has become somewhat of a little brother to me." Tom says with what appears to Harry as a derisive smile and sarcasm sharpening the edge of his words. The perceived ridicule is not shared with Hermione, who looks delighted with the warm admission.

Harry grits his teeth at what he sees as a slight to his pride, born from the tension he's been carrying with him all day, which can make a person a bit more cynical than usual. To him, Tom's words suggest condescension:  _You're inferior to me, remember that_. It's enraging to be treated like a child, particularly when Harry thought they had reached some sort of peaceful place earlier.

"Funny you should say that," Harry can't stop himself from sneering, "I've come to think of you as a sort of parent figure. Or maybe a grandparent figure? You're technically over sixty, aren't you?"

The tight-lipped smile in response says it all, but the mildly surprised pause that comes before that is overlooked by Harry. Tom squeezes his shoulder lightly, a warning that Harry ignores.

"Are you mocking me,  _boy_?" The scolding words are veiled with a pretence of good-natured teasing, but now even Ron is picking up on the tension, having been silent during his processing of everything, but now giving Harry a questioning look that gets no response. Harry is too busy glaring at Tom.

"Depends," he says. "Are  _you_  mocking  _me_ , old man?" The grip on his shoulder is now painfully tight, but he refuses to wince.

Tom laughs softly, and it rings hollow. "Very funny, Harry." He releases his hold, patting Harry's shoulder once briefly before moving away from his chair back towards the fireplace. "I didn't know you had a sense of humour."

"Yeah, people without one often have trouble recognising it." From the way Tom stares back at him, Harry thinks he probably shouldn't have blurted that one out.

Hermione coughs, Tom's warning look that's boring holes through Harry broken as his eyes shift to the girl. The irritation on his face flashes by and goes unnoticed by her.

"I believe it has gotten quite late. You ought to be in the Great Hall for dinner by now; wouldn't want to alarm people by your absence, would you?" he suggest politely, back to being as smooth as ever while Harry seethes quietly in his chair. It's unfair how strongly Tom affects him, getting under his skin with just a few words and a look, not to mention how easily he managed to wrap Hermione around his finger; he's just… he's just infuriating!

"Yes, we, er, we should get going," Hermione agrees quickly, standing up and looking pointedly at Ron, who also gets up right after. Harry pushes himself off his chair and crosses his arms, ignoring Tom completely, leaving it up to Hermione to make the exit.

She turns to the Slytherin, seeming unsure of what to say when he speaks first. "I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to talk later, Miss Granger," And it's sickeningly sweet how he smiles, though even more sickening is how she falls for it.

"Oh, just-just call me Hermione," she says with a blush, and Harry wouldn't have been surprised if she spontaneously started giggling right after, though she mercifully doesn't.

"Forgive me, I am quite old-fashioned," Tom responds with a laugh, with cheer, "being over sixty years old and whatnot." he adds with a glance at Harry, bowing in a mockery of gallantry, and this time Hermione does giggle and it's quite terrifying and almost traumatising in how girly it is.

"We'll be late," Harry cuts in harshly, something very ugly and painful flaring in his chest. "Let's go." He doesn't wait, turning around and heading out of the room, being the first to leave, followed by Ron who is still staring at Hermione as she finally turns around to leave as well, Tom vanishing instantly the moment she does so.

The trio stand still in the hall, and Ron is still gaping at Hermione.

"What?" she demands hotly, a bit embarrassed, probably having realized how odd her behaviour must have seemed to him.

"I didn't know you could giggle," Ron says simply, frowning slightly, and Hermione huffs, glaring intensely at him before striding off. "What? What did I say this time?" He looks to Harry, who just shakes his head and starts walking away as well, Ron behind him cursing all of the female gender as might be expected. "Girls, they're all mad, I swear!"

* * *

Dinner was a bit uncomfortable. Ron was annoyed by Hermione who was in turn completely exasperated by Ron, while Harry brooded in silence about his predicament. The rest of the evening they were mostly surrounded by other people, particularly Fred and George who seemed to have it out for Harry for some reason, and so they did not speak of the diary business until the day after.

Ron is the one who brings it up first. He wakes Harry the following morning after the other boys have already gone away, and in a manner that is spectacularly Ron-like and entirely unsubtle he mortifies Harry with a single question.

"So what about Cedric, mate?"

Harry, in his bed with glasses skewed on his face, gawks at him for a very long moment, legs tangled in his blankets and too sleep-dazed to really grasp the severity of the situation. "Er, what?"

"Well," Ron begins slowly and carefully, as if Harry is as dim-witted as Goyle. "You were making eyes at him yesterday, right? But then there's—"

"Ron, I really think you should shut up," Harry interrupts him in a panic when he finally realises what has happened, but it's already too late, and a tall figure appears out of thin air at the foot-end of Harry's bed before he even finishes his sentence. Said tall figure looks in a perfectly good mood, which is perhaps all the more frightening.

"Oh, no, please continue," Tom says kindly, as if he's been interrupting a mere conversation about the weather. "Then there's who? I was certain Harry was only infatuated with  _Cedric_." Harry flinches, the name accompanied by a verbal dagger in the tone.

"You, uh, you heard that?" Ron says nervously, glancing with an apologetic look at Harry. "I mean, he wasn't really making eyes at him, it was more the other way around. That Cedric bloke is really pushy, you know?"

"Is that so?" Tom arches his eyebrows sharply, not looking away from an ever-reddening Harry. "Harry never speaks of him. I think I should like to know more."

Ron, already dressed, decides he's quite unwanted after noticing that neither one of them are looking at him or paying him the slightest bit of attention. "I'll… I'll just… yeah. I'll be downstairs." And he backs away, grabbing his bag and leaving awkwardly, his departure just as ignored as his presence.

Harry swallows thickly as Tom walks around the bed to his side, sitting down at the edge. This cannot be good.

"I think you ought to know by now that such childish behaviour gets on my nerves," Tom starts gently, now every bit the parental figure Harry mocked him of being yesterday. "I was under the impression, after our...  _agreement_ , yesterday, that you might be mature enough to…" He trails off, pausing for a moment before sighing deeply. "Ah, well, it matters not. I was mistaken; you are still a child in too many ways." It is all said in an almost affectionate sort of disappointment that irks and at the same time shames Harry immensely.

He shifts in his bed, sitting up straighter with a scowl, feeling the heat rush to his head from either anger or embarrassment, or maybe even both. "You were taunting me in front of my friends," Harry accuses, trying not to feel intimidated under Tom's unwavering gaze, that now eyes disparaged at the claim. It makes Harry doubt. Maybe the remark hadn't been meant to taunt him at all. Maybe it really was sincere?

"Am I not allowed to jest from time to time? I wasn't lying," Tom answers quietly, and it's yesterday all over again, there comes the tidal wave of guilt for hurting his friend's feelings—until the expression vanishes and is replaced by an amused little smirk.

"You… you manipulative…" Harry bites on his tongue to prevent the curses from spilling out of his mouth. "You complete git!" he eventually blurts out, so annoyed and worked up that he grabs his pillow and attempts to hit Tom with it, who simply stands up and moves a step back to avoid it, looking very entertained and pleased with himself.

"Come now, Harry, no need to get upset," he tuts. "We're both adults here... ah, pardon me—" He takes a step to the left to dodge the pillow now hurled at him, Harry having half a mind to strangle him with his blanket.

"Yesterday, outside, you weren't sincere then either, were you?" Harry snaps angrily, agitated with himself for being fooled so easily. The days of blind admiration are officially over; now he can see why Tom was put into Slytherin. "You were just playing a game, and I fell for it."

The amusement on Tom's face disappears. "Harry," he sighs, cautiously approaching his bedside again and sitting down. "I meant everything I said yesterday. I kept my word to you, did I not? Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I—"

"Have I ever lied to you before?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Then you have no reason to doubt me on this, do you?" Tom points out, and while Harry is in the midst of thinking of a response, his entire thought process is halted when Tom reaches over and holds his hand, slender fingers wrapped around his, the touch itself cold but the feel enough to ignite sparks. "Let's not quarrel over such little things." Tom says softly, a light breeze turning embers into a fire, and Harry asks himself how this happened, how he ended up becoming so entranced with him. There's no answer for it.

"I don't want to… I mean… I believe you, I do, but there's something that's bothering me," Harry pushes out, staring down at their interlinked hands and wondering how his heart hasn't exploded yet. "I need to know…" It would be so simple to ask.  _How do you feel about me? Am I really just a child to you, and nothing more? Is it always going to be that way?_

"You can ask me anything, Harry, you know that," Tom reassures him warmly, and perhaps, had Harry not looked up a second faster than Tom had anticipated, he would've asked his question, but even Tom miscalculates.

Instead, Harry catches a glint in Tom's eyes that even Tom can't hide in time—it's a triumphant glint, a smug one, as if he has  _won_.

Harry tears his hand out of Tom's, a cold anger making him almost dizzy. "This is still a game to you, isn't it?" he says in a voice so devoid of emotion he can barely recognise it as his own, knowing he's on the edge of bursting.

"Harry—" Tom is tense, rigid, but reaches out to him, because  _this_ miscalculation, this bit of sheer bad luck, will cost him dearly if he doesn't fix it. Harry shoves his hand away before fingers can touch his cheek.

"You're not taking me seriously at all," His voice is starting to rise, and in a way, he even proves Tom right. He's a child in many ways, jumps to conclusions, and maybe it's a bit of inexperience, maybe it's a bit of hormones, maybe it's a bit of him that thinks himself so undeserving that he's intent on sabotaging himself without knowing it, determined on self-destruction. "You really think I am just a stupid little boy who would be helpless without you,  _you don't respect me in the slightest_ —"

Whichever the case, it doesn't matter to Tom. He knows how to shut Harry up.

Harry, on his part, never expected his first kiss to take place in the boys' dorms while he's yelling in his pyjamas at a soul fragment bound to a notebook.

Then again, by this point in his life, he should be used to the unexpected.


	18. Chapter 18

It's nothing like he thought it would be, which is often the case when a child opens his eyes to the world. The shock makes him take a while to process what's happening until the moment has already passed, and he's left with the befuddling after-feeling of a soft, wet touch on his lips and a trace of warmth on his cheeks where Tom's hands cup his skin, the warmth seeping into him.

Harry suddenly remembers that breathing is a thing he's supposed to be doing, and he swallows thickly, feeling almost disoriented. It's so peculiar; he thought about this moment more times than he'd like to admit, and it has nothing in common with his imagination. He thought there would be some sort of overwhelming sensation of bliss, a grand revelation, the spark of fireworks—yet all he's left with is the image of a fly caught in a spider's web.

Tom sighs, eyes still fixated on the lips he just kissed, and he looks almost exasperated, but still seems so sincere in his affection. Harry's question should be answered with that, shouldn't it? Tom likes him, in the same way he likes Tom. He should be absolutely ecstatic, so what is this empty feeling in the pit of his stomach? Why does it feel so  _off_?

"Uh…" Harry clears his throat awkwardly, Tom's eyebrows arching just a bit. "Well… that… that just… happened. Is this—?"

The finger on his lips silences him, dark eyes searching his face intently. "You look disappointed." Tom notes, without a particular emotion reflected in his tone, as hollow as the hole in Harry's gut. He squirms away from Tom's grasp, the uneasiness making his shoulders rigid as he suddenly finds the shine on Tom's shoes very interesting to look at.

"I'm just…" He lets out a sigh of frustration, stumbling over his words. "You surprised me."

"I would think so, since it was my intent," Tom remarks dryly and waits patiently for a reply.

Harry scratches the back of his neck, eyes flitting from object to object in the room, anywhere but Tom's eyes. "So now what?"

" _Now what_?" the Slytherin repeats slowly, brows furrowing into a wrinkle between his eyes. "Were you expecting something else to happen?" he adds, mouth quirking suggestively and making Harry's face colour.

"Yes," he blurts out, then tries to correct himself. "Well, no—I mean,  _yes_ , but not-not whatever it is you're thinking about." Harry sinks back down onto his bed, his mind a clutter of thoughts and forever unspoken words in his head.

He ought to be happy, floating on a cloud and all that, but there's this feeling in the back of his head—like a mouse gnawing through his skull and burrowing in his brain—that prevents him from enjoying this moment. It's still a question. In fact, now it's only reverberating in his mind louder than ever.

"Do you really like me?"

Harry knows at once that it was the wrong thing to say. Tom's relaxed countenance shifts in an instant, the slight smile vanishing from his face and the look in his eyes hardening like water freezing over in winter. "You still doubt me after that?"

"I didn't mean—"

"What do you take me for?" Tom continues coldly, jaw clenching tightly. "I thought it would be a proper answer to your question, but apparently nothing I can ever say or do is going to be good enough for you."

"Now wait a minute," Harry speaks up, but his voice isn't as strong as he would've liked it to be, his confidence buried underneath the little fears of injuring, of offending and alienating. "You just-you just did that in the middle of a serious conversation! It wasn't exactly what I imagined it was going to be like, and I'm sure you do like me… in a way... I think. But—"

"And this is the Golden Boy," Tom mocks in his interruption, though he seems to be talking more to himself than Harry as he turns away and brushes a hand through his hair in frustration. "Lord Voldemort's supposed great vanquisher has the confidence of an ant. Brilliant."

"I  _was_ expecting something more," Harry snaps in spite of himself, feeling driven into a corner. What is he supposed to do, when nothing feels right? When he's not melting into a puddle, when he doesn't feel like he's soaring, doesn't feel like he's single-handedly won both the House Cup and Quidditch Cup, when he isn't experiencing  _any_ of the things conventional wisdom had made him believe he would once he had his first kiss? When it felt so shockingly ordinary, even though he was kissed by someone so completely  _extraordinary_?

Tom turns back to him, the curve of his lips snide like Harry's never seen on Tom's face before. "Oh, so we're a romantic now, are we? Should I climb up your balcony on a vine of roses and recite ornate little verses of poetry next time?"

"Look, I didn't want a bloody serenade, I just thought…" Harry trails off, muttering the last part under his breath. "I just thought it was supposed to be more special."

The silence that follows the next moment is even more tense because he has no idea what Tom's response to this will be. Sure, he's always been a difficult character to place, but Harry has always had some sort of way to measure how he'd respond to things before. He's had this idealistic image of Tom in his mind for the longest time, one that seems a bit childish to him now, but this is completely unfamiliar territory.

He's not certain of anything anymore. The more he has gotten to know Tom, the less he feels he actually knows him.

Tom is looking at him for what feels like the longest time, the expression his face wears inscrutable. Then, he says, very calmly, "I think it's time you grew up, Harry." And with a look of sheer disappointment that burns into Harry's retina like a scar, he disappears.

And with a start, Harry realises Tom has never answered his question.

" _Do you really like me?"_

Who is he?

Harry feels a sudden pressure in his chest bearing down on his heart as he sits statue-still on the edge of his bed, unaware of Ron's footsteps coming up the stairs again a few minutes later.

Who is this young man whose smiles are dazzling like the sun—his brilliance so bright it scorches, casting larger shadows than its light? His words are always so pretty, but what are they really worth? What goes on in the mind of someone who only shows a speck of what he really is, nothing more than a drop in the ocean?

Who really is Tom Riddle?

* * *

Moody is definitely insane. Sure, his classes are the most riveting Ron has ever had, but the man is completely off his rocker. Using the Forbidden Curses on some spiders is one thing, but using one of them on students is just, well, like Hermione said (and he hates to agree with goody little two-shoes), illegal.

After being cursed into doing a back-flip, Ron faintly wonders what his parents would do if he wrote a letter telling them Moody used the Imperius spell on him. Okay, making him do a back-flip was  _wicked_ , but still! The man has to be insane!

"Talk about paranoid," Ron glances nervously over his shoulder to check that Moody is out of earshot and goes on as the trio of friends make their way out of the classroom. "No wonder they were glad to get shot of him at the Ministry. Did you hear him telling Seamus what he did to that witch who shouted 'Boo' behind him on April Fools' Day? And when are we supposed to read up on resisting the Imperius Curse with everything else we've got to do?"

He looks at Harry for a response, but he seems not to have even heard him, staring down at the ground with a distant gaze. He's been like this all day, and Ron is starting to become a bit concerned.

"Oy, mate," He nudges Harry, startling him into paying attention. "You alright?"

"Hmm? Yeah, yeah. Fine," Harry mutters back, and they venture down the stairs, caught in a small crowd of students and walking slowly. Ron glances at Hermione who's walking behind them, who seems just as sceptical as the redhead feels at the moment.

"Is this about… er," Ron almost wanted to say  _you-know-who_ , but that particular phrase has a very different (and negative) connotation to it, and instead goes for, "Is this about the snake?"

Harry gives him a weird look and Hermione sighs behind him. Ron feels her breath brush over the back of his neck and his cheeks take on a tinge of pink as he furiously tries to focus on Harry.

"Yeah," his friend admits eventually. "It's just—"

"Complicated?" Hermione supplies wryly. Harry takes the moment to glare at her, completely unamused, before turning back to Ron.

"This-this thing happened, and I don't think I handled it very well."

"Thing? What thing?"

Harry looks away, appearing a bit embarrassed. Hermione, only a second later, gasps, suddenly excited. " _Oh_! I can't believe it!"

Ron frowns at the both of them, completely lost.

"What was it like?" she asks breathlessly, and Harry's face turns redder than after a rigorous bout of Quidditch practice.

"Disappointing," Harry mumbles, and Ron is starting to get fed up with the subtext that escapes him completely.

"What in Merlin's beard are you two talking about?"

The three finally step off the stairs, at which Hermione takes both of them by the wrist and pulls them down the hall to a spot where it's a bit more quiet, most students now heading to the Great Hall for lunch. She looks at Ron very gravely.

"Harry had his first kiss."

Ron blinks. "Ah," he says intelligently, then claps Harry on his back. "Good on you, mate."

"Thanks," Harry replies miserably, and Ron shifts awkwardly on his feet, ignoring Hermione's admonishing look. "I think I messed up, though."

"How come?" she continues to ask, far more attentive than Ron who's wondering how in the world you could possibly mess up a first kiss. It's  _supposed_ to be awkward and sometimes painfully embarrassing, as his older brothers have all been delighted in informing him, so how could you mess it up beyond that?

"Well, I basically  _told_ him I was disappointed," Harry admits, Hermione's eyebrows arching up almost all the way up to her hairline, Ron wincing at the blunder. "And, sort of, uh, questioned his motives."

"Oh Harry," Hermione sighs, slender fingers rubbing over her forehead. "Was he very upset?"

"A little bit, yeah, but I don't think he's mad or anything. Just disappointed by my, er, disappointment."

"You should apologise to him, talk this over," Hermione advises him, and there's a brief moment where Harry looks like he wants to say more, but he closes his mouth and nods instead.

Ron gets the sense there's a lot more going on in his friend's head than just the disappointment of a first kiss, but Harry seems reluctant to talk about it, and so he decides to give him some space, for now. He's really pretty hopeless himself with all this romance stuff, so he doubts he could be of any real help to Harry anyway.

The three friends move on to get some lunch, after which more lessons follow, none of which were any less straining than Moody's eccentric lessons.

All the fourth years by now have noticed a definite increase in the amount of work they're required to do this term. Professor McGonagall explains why that same afternoon, when the class gives a particularly loud groan at the amount of Transfiguration homework they've been assigned.

"You are now entering a most important phase of your magical education!" she tells them, her eyes glinting dangerously behind her square spectacles. "Your Ordinary Wizarding Levels are drawing closer—"

"We don't take O.W.L.s till fifth year!" Dean Thomas says indignantly, and Ron is inclined to agree with him.

"Maybe not, Thomas, but believe me, you need all the preparation you can get! Miss Granger and Mr. Potter remain the only students in this class who have managed to turn a hedgehog into a satisfactory pincushion. I might remind you that your pincushion, Thomas, still curls up in fright if anyone approaches it with a pin!"

Hermione, who has turned rather pink again, seems to be trying not to look too pleased with herself. Harry still appears… well, depressed, and oblivious to the rare praise he's just been given. Ron ponders on what he could do to cheer him up, when their next class starts and they are forced to part, Ron heading to Divination, and Harry heading for Ancient Runes with Hermione. Neither classes fail to set them up with even  _more_ homework that needs to be finished within a few days, adding to the (in their mind) unreasonable workload.

Meanwhile Professor Binns, the ghost who teaches History of Magic, has them writing weekly essays on the goblin rebellions of the eighteenth century. Professor Snape, to add to it, is forcing them to research antidotes. Ron and Harry take this one particularly seriously, as he had hinted that he might be poisoning one of them before Christmas to see if their antidote worked—specifically Harry, who has started to improve little by little, which seems displeasing to Snape in the strongest sense of the word. Professor Flitwick also asked them to read three extra books in preparation for their lesson on Summoning Charms.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione return to the castle at the end of the lessons in low spirits; even Hermione is a bit weary at all the work they've been given, and they're not even halfway through the school year yet!

When they arrive in the entrance hall, they find themselves unable to proceed, owing to the large crowd of students congregated there, all milling around a large sign that has been erected at the foot of the marble staircase. Ron, being the tallest of the three, stands on his tiptoes to see over the heads in front of them and reads the sign aloud to the other two:

"Triwizard Tournament: The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving at 6 o'clock on Friday the 30th of October. Lessons will end half an hour early—"

"Brilliant!" Harry says, for the first time that day appearing a bit more cheerful. "It's Potions last thing on Friday! Snape won't have time to poison us all!"

"—and students will return their bags and books to their dormitories to assemble in front of the castle to greet our guests before the welcoming feast."

"Only a week away!" Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff pipes up, emerging from the crowd, his eyes gleaming. "I wonder if Cedric knows? Think I'll go and tell him!"

"He must be entering the tournament," Harry muses thoughtfully.

"That guy, Hogwarts champion?" Ron replies in dismay as they push their way through the chattering crowd toward the staircase. As far as he can tell, all Diggory has to his advantage is his pretty mug, and that's about it. Harry even beat him in a Quidditch match last year, so what's so special about him anyway?

"I've heard he's a really good student,  _and_  he's a prefect." Hermione explains smartly, speaking as though this settles the matter.

"You only like him because he's handsome," Ron says scathingly, a pang of jealousy making the words a bit more sharp than he intended.

"Excuse me, I don't like people just because they're handsome!" comes the indignant response, accompanied by a fierce glare.

Ron gives a loud false cough, barely masking the " _Lockhart_!" underneath his breath.

The appearance of the sign in the entrance hall has a marked effect upon the inhabitants of the castle. During the following week, there seems to be only one topic of conversation, no matter where Ron goes: the Triwizard Tournament. Rumours are flying from student to student like highly contagious germs: who was going to try for Hogwarts champion, what the tournament will involve, and how the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang differed from themselves.

Ron noticed that the castle seemed to be undergoing an extra-thorough cleaning as well. Several grimy portraits get scrubbed, much to the displeasure of their subjects, who sit huddled in their frames muttering darkly and wincing as they feel their raw pink faces. The suits of armour are suddenly gleaming and moving without squeaking, and Argus Filch, the caretaker, behaves so ferociously to any students who forgets to wipe their shoes that he terrifies a pair of first-year girls into hysterics.

Other members of the staff seem oddly tense too.

"Longbottom, kindly do not reveal that you can't even perform a simple Switching Spell in front of anyone from Durmstrang!" Professor McGonagall barks at the end of one particularly difficult lesson, during which Neville accidentally transplants his own ears onto a cactus.

For a few days Ron is caught up in all the buzz, but Harry's persistently demure mood doesn't go unnoticed. The topic of 'Tom Riddle' doesn't come up again, the diary sitting inside Harry's trunk, but it's clearly bothering him, and Ron at this point knows Harry well enough that forcing him to talk isn't going to work, so he takes a route that's maybe not the most honest, but definitely feels like his duty as a best friend to figure out what in Morgan's hell was up between the two.

In honesty, Ron isn't quite sure what to think of this Riddle character to begin with. A suspicious figure living inside a diary, having hidden himself from everyone except Harry for the past two years? That doesn't give him the most trustworthy impression of the guy.

So, with these doubts in mind, Ron is doubly nervous when he waits for Harry to go ahead to the Great Hall one morning, managing to haphazardly lie about searching for a schoolbook. The guilt trip at rummaging through Harry's belongings to find the diary is pretty unpleasant as well, but it needs to be done.

He picks out the leather cover of the diary in between some clothes, and pulls it out. Looking at it unsurely, Ron eventually takes a deep breath, and says, "We need to talk."

"Ron Weasley," The boy nearly ends up with a heart attack at the voice that suddenly speaks up behind him, and he stands up warily, turning around to face the diary-ghost-spirit-whatever-he-is. Riddle is staring at him curiously, hands seeming folded behind his back. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"It's about Harry," Riddle remains quiet, an expectant look on his face, and Ron nervously continues. Something about this bloke is really anxiety-inducing. He gets the same feeling around Dumbledore, but less, well, less… just  _less_. "He's been really down lately, and I don't know how to help him because I have no idea what's actually wrong. So, I was wondering, if you could tell me about… uh, the whole thing…" Ron rethinks his phrasing at a disturbing thought that occurs to him shortly after. "I mean  _some_  things. I don't need details, thanks."

Riddle lets out a sigh, and it almost appears as if he breathes out all his stature with it, the imposing figure drained of his poise. He walks to the windows, back turned to Ron, who's now completely confused as to what he's supposed to make of this guy. "I'm sure he has already given you an impression of what went wrong."

"He said it was, um, disappointing?" Ron replies awkwardly, feeling completely out of his depth, but soldiering on anyway.

"Yes, to him it was. And being as honest as he is, he relayed as much to me, and I fear I reacted a bit too harshly," Riddle admits quietly, sounding a bit at a loss. "I'm just a ghost chained to an inanimate object, after all—I should've expected disappointment from the very beginning, but I liked him too much to leave it be."

"Well, I mean…" Ron scratches the back of his head, not sure of what to say. This whole situation is just  _weird_ , but then again, he himself played a life-sized chess game of life and death and nearly got himself killed in his first year. Riddle is still a person in a way, and Harry seems to genuinely fancy him. "He really does like you a lot, too."

"I'm not sure about that anymore," Riddle replies. "I always seem to say the wrong things, and it probably would have been best to let him be instead of complicating our relationship like I have."

Ron can't help but feel sincere sympathy for him now; the way Riddle describes his situation is extremely relatable. Ron has had issues of his own with saying the wrong things and messing everything up—it's a wonder Hermione hasn't hexed him yet. "Would it help if I told him about how you felt?" he offers to, what appears to him, a kindred spirit.

Riddle turns around to face him at this, appearing surprised. "You would do that? He might listen to you more than me. You're his best friend, after all."

"Oh, well," Ron can't help but grin a bit at that. "So is Hermione, but…"

"Come now, he really does consider you to be his  _closest_ friend," Riddle adds with a smile—a shot of confidence-boosting if he's ever had one. "He admires you quite a bit, you know. Don't tell him I told you that, though. He'd be very embarrassed."

"What? Really?" Ron gawks a Riddle disbelievingly. Harry admires  _him_? It has always been the other way for Ron—a quiet admiration mixed with a bit of envy—but he could've never imagined it being a two-way street.

"Of course," Riddle says, seeming almost taken aback at Ron not having noticed it. "Your determination and generosity have always impressed him. He values your friendship a lot."

"Oh." Ron doesn't know what to say to that, feeling the strong urge to go out and boast and gloat about how  _The Boy Who Lived_ admired  _him_ , the sixth-born Weasley kid. "Wow."

"I thought you should know," Riddle adds casually, glancing at the clock now. "But I think you ought to head downstairs now, before you miss breakfast."

"Right," Ron nods, forcing himself out of his daze. "Thanks, Tom," he adds a bit timidly, though he starts feels a lot more at ease when he glances at the friendly smile on the other's face. "I'll talk to Harry about, you know. He'll definitely understand."

"I'd be much obliged," Tom responds affably, and Ron gives him a brief wave before heading to the stairs, Tom disappearing as he does so. From that conversation on, his impression of the formerly mysterious figure has now been fixed firmly into his mind as decidedly positive.

Tom Riddle really is a great bloke.

* * *

' _Tip-toeing around the castle when you're impossible to hear or see really seems a bit redundant, don't you think, Tom?'_ faux-Dumbledore remarks jovially as he stalks through the shadows of hallways. Tom diligently ignores him, favouring caution above all else. While the entire student body as well as the staff should be occupied by the arrival of the Beauxbaton and Durmstrang students, his anxiety of running into the real Dumbledore quite overshadows his pride being slighted by the voice in his head. It's easier to block it out when he's focused on something else, such as now.

The scene of a year ago, in the Shrieking Shack with the old wizard gazing into his direction still makes him tense when he thinks about it. One wrong move then might've exposed him. He doesn't know how—perhaps some sort of sensitivity to perceiving even the slightest trace of magic—but Dumbledore would've surely been able to figure him out had he remained there long enough. The stronger he becomes, the larger the risk of discovery. Something needs to be done, soon, and Tom has an inkling of where he might start.

Moody is hiding something. Tom knows a snake when he sees one, and not all is what it appears to be with that man. Harry only took his diary with during the first lesson of the year, and while Tom could've wandered into the classroom on his own anyway, it was best not to let Harry know how his range of independence had increased lately. Let him think he was needed.

In any case, he picked up quite a bit of hints during that lesson alone. While nothing seemed off outwardly, and Tom doesn't know enough of this Moody character (nothing from his regained memories, in any case) to judge his method of teaching, when he performed those Forbidden curses, Tom could see the glint of enjoyment in his good eye. Students still young and inexperienced were overwhelmed by the man's appearance and his eccentric character, but Tom could recognise that gleam of sadistic glee anywhere—the best of his Death Eaters possessed it, that innate talent for the Dark Arts.

Dumbledore must have not noticed, having trusted the man's reputation as a feared Auror, must have been fooled one way or another. Tom had plenty of time to observe Moody, however, having even lingered in the classroom a while after Harry had already left, and that drink in the man's flask is certainly nothing as innocuous as fire whiskey.

He's not certain if he'll be in time to catch the man doing anything to give him an idea as to who this man really is, but it's certainly better than doing nothing at all.

Tom trails up the stairs of the West Tower, skilfully avoiding the few students still coming down. To his pleasure he sees Moody still present inside the classroom, the door opened, and he manages to slip inside before Moody closes it with a flick of his wand.

His eyes briefly skim over the classroom, noting the neat arrangements of the desks and chairs, before his gaze falls onto the desk and he can't believe his luck. The flask Moody always drinks out of is sitting on the corner of it, the Professor himself occupied with rummaging through the lower drawers. Tom approaches it carefully, picking the flask smoothly off the desk, opening the lid and smelling its contents.

Though it seems almost empty, the putrid, sharp scent is still strongly present and could belong to many a potion, but it makes him wonder. He slides the flask up underneath his sleeve, cloaking it within his invisibility, and watches as Moody stands up again a few seconds later with a jar of something in his hand. At seeing the flask is gone, the Professor curses loudly, increasing Tom's suspicions, especially when the jar he sets down on the desk appears to be a half-filled jar of boomslang skin—not a very common ingredient for potions, aside from a very few select and highly advanced ones.

Just as Moody reaches for his wand, his skin seems to start rippling, deforming, and there can be no further question left as to what is in the flask; Polyjuice Potion.

So then, if this is not the real Professor Moody, who is hiding behind that face?

" _Accio_ flask," 'Moody' grumbles, and Tom is forced to let go of it, the Professor's glass eye that's darting about wildly focusing intensely on where Tom is standing.

Well, he supposes there's one way to find out.

Before 'Moody' can move another muscle, Tom snatches the man's wrist, jerking it towards him and bending it to point Moody's wand away from him, pushing up the sleeve of his arm.

There, very faint and still forming, are the outlines of the Dark Mark.

'Moody' pulls himself free with a growl, starting to twitch violently before he takes a long sip from whatever little bit is left in his flask, and the twitching and deforming seems to come to a halt a few seconds later, restoring everything to its previous state. The impostor aims his wand at where Tom is standing, who smoothly moves out of the way, circling behind 'Moody', who mutters a  _Finite Incantatem_ , which does nothing to reveal Tom's presence.

"Who's there?" the impostor demands in a hiss uncharacteristic to 'Moody', having figured out his disguise has been blown.

Tom decides to have some fun.

"A Death Eater teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts? I'm shocked you managed to escape Dumbledore's scrutiny, considering how careless you are." he remarks, continuing to walk around and narrowly avoiding a spell flung at him by 'Moody', which hits the blackboard behind him instead, a loud bang reverberating through the classroom. 'Moody' still can't see him, but he can certainly hear him.

"Show yourself!" 'Moody' demands, glass eye darting all around the room.

"Who might you be, I wonder?" Tom continues to muse, ignoring the impostor's panic. "The original Knights of Walpurgis seem to have either died, defected or been imprisoned. To be frank, you Death Eaters have been quite the disappointment, with what the ridiculous stunt you pulled during the summer."

'Moody' has frozen up during Tom's little monologue, having paled considerably. It's quite humorous to see the facade of stern, hardened Auror melt away to a jittery, terrified looking man who has been caught in his lie. "How do you know about the Knights?"

Ah, it seems his original has kept that a secret rather well. "How indeed." Tom chuckles darkly, sauntering up to the desk where 'Moody' stands behind. "You would have to conclude that I am either a  _very_ well-informed enemy, or an ally."

'Moody' looks around uncertainly, stance rigid, but doesn't reply. Tom slides up next to him with an amused little smile. "Would you like to take a guess?" he hisses into 'Moody's ear, who practically jumps, immediately turning his wand and, to his credit, points it right at Tom's throat.

Tom glances down at it. "That's quite the dangerous game you're playing, little Death Eater. You shouldn't point your wand at someone unless you're prepared to use it."

" _Who are you_?!"

'Moody' looks mortified—has he recognised Tom for who he really is?

"Tell me," Tom says, ignoring his hysterics and pushing the wand away from his throat with a finger, entirely unfazed. "Who sent you to infiltrate the castle? Was it  _me_?" He laughs to himself at the thought—of course his original would've unwittingly handed him a golden opportunity.

"You? What… I don't understand—" Before 'Moody' can finish his sentence, Tom's hand is on his arm again with its sleeve still rolled up, fingertips on the place where the Dark Mark is supposed to be, and lets his magic seep into the skin. 'Moody' winces and it pulses, the Mark singing to the signature of his power. "My-my Lord?" the man whispers breathlessly, and Tom smiles in pleasure,  _finally_ being addressed by his proper title after so long.

"Kneel," Tom says softly, and the Death Eater knows his Lord well to obey immediately as he does, head bowed.

"My Lord, I don't understand—"

"I will explain later," Tom replies. "You will be missed at the welcoming feast if you linger for much longer. I merely wished to confirm your identity."

"I… yes, of course."

He takes a step back, watching the Death Eater closely. "So what are you waiting for?"

The impostor, though he looks utterly bewildered by the situation, seems to have good instincts not to disobey or question, recognising his better well enough. He looks unsurely at the spot where he suspects Tom to be, right in front of him, before cautiously bowing his head once and walking around him, ambling out of the room.

Tom watches him in amusement until he disappears down the stairs, mind racing already as he thinks of dozens of possibilities of what he can do with this, how he can take advantage of this. The power-hungry monster that he's kept dormant for the past few months comes roaring out of its cage, and at once, Tom feels more whole—feels more like  _himself_ , and it feels good, better than he's ever felt.

' _Oh dear,'_ faux-Dumbledore chimes in, of course, intent on ruining his moment, though he sounds sombre.  _'I don't suppose I could persuade you to drop all the little plans you're scheming right now?'_

Tom briefly imagines himself slitting the old Headmaster's throat with a macabre spell, blood soaking his ridiculous robes and silver beard into red, and instantly feels better.


	19. Chapter 19

It's a terrible day to be Harry Potter.

Truthfully, he feels disillusioned and lost. Someone knitted a lovely pattern of wool to pull over his eyes, and he has finally started unravelling it, string by string. Harry isn't certain of Tom anymore—he's gone over their conversation from a day ago over and over again in his head. Things stick out to him now that he's had time to mull them over, and he's hearing alarm bells that have been screaming bloody murder for a while now but were drowned out by a lovesick serenade before.

Harry knows nothing about Tom. Not his feelings, not his thoughts, not who he is, where he came from, what his story is— _nothing_. Tom is charming, brilliant, helpful, kind, utterly bedazzling, but unapproachable. You could bask in his light or get scorched by the heat, but not once would you be able to touch him. Harry feels like a child peering up at a star that will be forever out of his reach; the thought is maddening.

All these thoughts and emotions swirling into a bitter concoction inside his gut, it's no wonder his morning doesn't start off too well with him nearly oversleeping and having to miss breakfast to get on time to his first lesson. It doesn't get any better from there.

During Transfiguration that morning he completely messes up on the advanced assignment he receives from McGonagall, lacking any willpower to concentrate, his snake's tail ending up poking out from the end of the leather bag he was supposed to transfigure it into. Neither his head nor heart are into it today, and the Professor isn't happy with it.

"You're too distracted, Potter," McGonagall reprimands him sternly, undoing his mess-up and directing him to start over. He's been getting a bit too comfortable with her praises the past few lessons—going back to base one feels rather embarrassing.

The snake as well peers up at him with a, what seems to be, disapproving shake of its head.  _"That wassss highly uncomfortable. Pleasssse refrain from doing that again."_

" _Sorry,"_ Harry replies to the oddly polite reptile automatically in Parseltongue, startling Dean sitting on his right, who eyes him warily. " _Sorry, Dean, I was just—_ "

"That's still snake speak, Harry." Ron cautions him from his left, his friend letting out a frustrated sigh and turning back to his test subject after mumbling an apology in English, raising his wand. The snake coils back.

" _Musssst you turn me into a purse?"_ it complains. " _I quite like mysssself the way I am right now, thank you."_

Harry doesn't have the patience to care about the talkative serpent's grievances.  _"Just shut up and stay still."_ And he tries again—of course, it amounts to nothing, seeing as how terrible a mood he's in now. It's irritating how much his temper affects his performance, which does nothing but aggravate him even more, and he ends up in a cycle that only gets worse as the day goes on.

He spills hot tea on his pants during lunch, trips over the stairs, walks into a door that opens too fast for him to avoid, and then comes the straw that breaks the camel's back just as he's heading for Ancient Runes, mood already worsening at the thought of having to work with Malfoy again.

"Look who it is, gents."

A small group of Slytherins are hanging about in the narrow corridor leading to the Ancient Runes classroom. To his surprise, Malfoy isn't among them, sneering at him. He knows they have an agreement, but perhaps out of reflex, he just expected Malfoy to be sneering at him among them.

"Why, if it isn't Fairy Potter!" the tallest out of the group says before laughing loudly at his own clever little joke.

Harry furiously tries repeating a mantra of calming thoughts inside his head.  _'Not worth it, not worth it, not worth it, you're better than that, think of what mum would've done_ —'

"Where's your mudblood boyfriend, ey, Potter?"

"I'm starting to think he might not have one. How sad is that?"

"Maybe he got dumped!" A chorus of laughter follows.

He's halfway there.

"We're talking to you, Potter!" one calls out, wand twirling in between his fingers.

Harry is halfway to the classroom when something in his head snaps and he turns around, pulling out his wand as well, head pounding in anger. The Slytherins seem amused, having expected that and wanted that reaction from the get-go to give them an excuse to hex the famous  _Boy Who Lived._

Unfortunately for them, today is not Harry's day, and he does not have the patience to deal with a bunch of slimy pricks who think they can bully him and get away with it. He hurls a jinx at them before they can beat him to it.

" _Pavimento Lubricum!"_ His mint green spell hits the floor underneath the students before they can even react, covering it with a thick, slippery translucent substance that makes the Slytherins slip and fall at the slightest movement, tripping over each other as they end up a mess of limbs on the ground, books and bags scattering everywhere.

"You'll pay for that, Potter!"

An intensely satisfied feeling calms his nerves, and just as Harry turns around, planning to continue on his way to class with a little smile on his face, he comes face to face with Snape.

The head of Slytherin of course, with the most infuriatingly smug look on his face, doesn't hesitate to detract thirty House Points and hit him with a week-long detention. Harry is so incensed he can't even get the protests out of his mouth, gritting his teeth, spitting out, " _Fine_!" before moving on lest he starts hurling curses at Snape as well.

Today is the worst kind of day to be Harry Potter.

By the time Harry finally arrives in his classroom, he's fuming. He brushes past Hermione who calls out his name, ignoring her and her frown, heading to his seat near the back of the class. Malfoy is already seated, scribbling something down on his parchment, though he looks up with a start when Harry practically throws his bag down on the desk next to him with a loud smack, and collapses in the seat next to him.

There's a brief silence as Harry angrily starts unpacking his things, and Malfoy simply watches, a little bemused, but mostly curious.

"I see you're as cheery as ever, Potter." he drawls languidly, unfazed by the glare he receives.

"Not now, Malfoy." Harry grumbles, putting his bag down on the ground. Just as Malfoy opens his mouth to continue prodding him, Professor Babbling enters the classroom with a happy greeting, and the lesson starts.

Harry barely pays attention; they're directed to continue working on their partner project anyway after some advanced theory on Elemental Runes, and he focuses on gathering the homework he actually managed to do for today.

Malfoy peers at his research, and raises his eyebrows. "You have  _atrocious_ handwriting. How am I supposed to decipher any of this?"

"I did my part," Harry replies hotly, shoving the rolls of parchment into Malfoy's hands. "Now you do yours and stop whining."

"Did you get into a fight with your boyfriend, or something?" Malfoy retorts mockingly as he takes the parchment, squinting as he tries reading the first page. Harry bites on his tongue to hold back a very nasty swear. "You're even worse than usual. I didn't think that was possible but—is this a C or an E?"

At that, Harry grudgingly glances over with a scowl. "An E."

"Naturally—as I was saying," Malfoy continues wryly, "get your act together. We have to get this assignment done  _today_ , and I'll be damned if I let your insipid relationship issues get in the way of my getting a perfect grade."

Harry crosses his arms and leans back into his seat, waiting for Malfoy to finish reading as he needs some of the information he's looked up to do his part as well. "You're worse than Hermione."

"Do not  _compare_  me to that—" Malfoy pauses at Harry's dark look, and reluctantly abandons the insult. "Whatever." The conversation halts for about a minute, in which Harry doesn't have anything to do but watch Malfoy reading his work, who notices and starts getting impatient. "Don't just sit there and stare at me, Potter. I know you can't take your eyes off me—" Malfoy ignores the gagging noise Harry makes, "—but go do something useful for a change."

"Like what?" Harry asks in frustration.

Malfoy smirks spitefully. "Jumping out the window would be a nice start."

"Sod off."

After another minute, Malfoy finally hands the parchments back. "It'll do, I suppose. Have you ever used an elemental rune before?"

"Er, no."

"Well, isn't that bloody brilliant?" Malfoy mutters morosely as he reaches into his bag, fishing for something. "I'm stuck working with a beginner; just my luck."

"In case you haven't noticed, most people in this class haven't used runes before, Malfoy. Not everyone can rely on daddy to hire them private tutors." Harry replies snidely as he watches his partner pull out a blank roll of parchment and spread it out on the table in front of him.

"Well then, here's your chance," Malfoy states sardonically, tapping on the parchment with the tip of his quill. "Start practising, novice."

As much as Harry hates to do anything that the Slytherin says, he doesn't have much of a choice. As he opens up his book and decides to go with a simple fire-warding rune, he notices that his bad temper has been sinking down quickly. He's not sure why his verbal jousting with Malfoy has had such a therapeutic effect on his anger, but at least he's not feeling like he wants to strangle something anymore. That is a definite improvement, of sorts.

He decides to focus on practising, now that he's no longer despising the entire world in that way hormonal teenagers tend to do when they're broody. Ancient Runes isn't actually that difficult a subject when you know how to use the runes. The way to start combining them with an object is with a simple rune-invoking spell,  _Sculpsit Verba_ , though it requires continuous and intense focus, and drains your magic significantly more than your average charm or curse.

For a fire-warding rune, all he thinks needs to do is simply combine the rune for 'fire' and the rune for 'immunity' on the parchment. The problem is that there are so many runes for so many different words that he has to pull out his book to make sure he's remembering the right ones. Reading over the theory again he realises that simply putting the rune for 'fire' and 'immunity' together would make for a very weak rune. The more detailed you make an inscription, the stronger the runes will be. Hence why most runic inscriptions come in sentences, apparently.

"Figured it out yet, Potter?"

Malfoy's snide tone is not appreciated.

"Would you stop nagging?" Harry mumbles as he scribbles some runes together to form a vague sentence on a bit of paper he can copy off of before grabbing the parchment and starting the real work.

Taking a deep breath, he murmurs the spell and a yellow stream of light bursts out of the tip of his wand. White sparks fly off the pages before they die out instantly, like tiny fireworks as he moves his wand carefully up and down, forming straight lines and circles and dots that burn black into the parchment. Sweat is starting to glisten off his forehead, the task a long and arduous one, the hand holding his wand starting to tremble slightly when he puts the last line down in the middle of a rune and breaks the golden stream off, breathing a sigh of relief when he's finished.

No sooner has he tucked his wand back in his robes (the tip feeling hot, like he's just been welding something) does Malfoy reach over and snatch the parchment out from right under him, the roughly engraved runes spelling out a simple sentence:  _From Fire No Mark, From Heat No Harm._

Malfoy gives it a sceptical look before pulling out his own wand, sounding a spell as flames spew down onto Harry's parchment. To his relief, it seems to have no effect on it whatsoever.

"Could've been worse, I  _suppose_ ," Malfoy remarks glibly, bringing that scowl right back onto Harry's face.

"What are you going on about? It was perfect!"

The heir snorts, giving him a haughty look before rolling up his sleeve. " _Sculpsit Cantamen_." A golden stream erupts from the end of Malfoy's wand, causing bright orange sparks—different colours from Harry's, with a different incantation. Whereas Harry took nearly three minutes, Malfoy takes only thirty seconds, carving out the words seamlessly onto the parchment.

"As I said, it could've been better," Malfoy smirks self-satisfied, and Harry only just barely suppresses the urge to hurl the parchment into his smug face.

"You used an entirely different spell!" he accuses.

"Not entirely different. The one you used is for beginners—mine is for the  _advanced_."

"Oh, bugger off," Harry grumbles, yanking the parchment away from him and opening his book to look up this 'advanced' spell that gave Malfoy the edge over him. Usually Harry would be hard-pressed to do such vigorous research, but revenge is a fairly good motivator. "I bet you got that spell from the tutor daddy bought you anyway."

"Just because you're told a spell doesn't mean you can suddenly master it, you complete simpleton," Malfoy bites back surprisingly harshly, all his nonchalant derision disappearing. "While you were mucking around with your little muggle toys, I studied all summer."

"I don't  _have_ muggle toys, whatever the hell those are," Harry retorts, his brief bemusement at the sudden shift in tone quickly turning into ire. "Unlike you, I didn't just get handed everything on a platter."

"Are you bloody joking?!" Their conversation is getting louder and more heated with the second, and it's starting to draw stares. "People idolised you when you were a baby, for doing  _what_? You didn't deserve any of your fame!"

"I never wanted to be famous in the first place! When did I ever—"

"Bollocks, you love the attention, just admit it already! You probably never even worked a damn day in your entire life—"

"What the hell do you know?"

"Well, what the hell do  _you_ know?!"

The shouting match comes to a very sudden end at that, both boys up on their feet, having been yelling at each other luckily  _after_ the Professor had left the classroom for a brief moment. They're now staring at each other, both faces still red in anger, but even if they'd like to do nothing more than pummel the other to a bloody pulp, at this point, both boys come to a very uncomfortable realisation.

Harry takes a deep, calming breath, counting to ten inside his head for a moment until the mere sight of Malfoy's pointy face doesn't give him murderous tendencies anymore.

"Fine," he says, voice a bit hoarse from all that yelling. "I guess we both know nothing."

Malfoy purses his lips in a thin line, but remains silent, looking away and slowly sitting back down on his chair, glaring at an invisible spot on his desk. Harry follows suit grudgingly.

They don't speak for the rest of the lesson.

* * *

"I just think, you know," Ron continues awkwardly, trailing behind Harry as they trudge up the stairs towards the common room at the end of the afternoon. "I think you should let it go."

As if his shouting match with Malfoy—that then lead to a most unwelcome sort of hostile understanding—hadn't been bad enough after all he'd already suffered through that day, now his best friend has turned on him as well.

"Ron, why do you even  _care_?" Harry asks tiredly, no longer possessing the energy to get irritated after an hour of detention with Snape.

His tall friend shrugs. "He's not a bad guy for a Slytherin. I mean, he cares about you or whatever. So, er… just forgive him already, yeah?"

"Are you—" Harry stops in the middle of the stairs to give Ron an incredulous look as the thought occurs to him: "Did Tom ask you to do this?" In the past, he would've never suspected that from Tom, for him to pull the strings on his friends, but now that he's a little bit wiser, things are starting to change rapidly.

"No?" Ron attempts feebly, and Harry clenches his jaw in sheer frustration, turning away and continuing up the steps at an even faster pace. "Harry! Okay, look, I admit it, he asked me! But he means well, honest!"

"I really don't want to deal with this right now!" Harry says loudly, trying to ignore his friend catching up to him easily with his longer legs, cursing underneath his breath. "If Tom has something to say to me, he can say it to my face." He pauses at that and glances around for a moment, half-expecting the young man himself to appear out of nowhere, as he seems to delight in doing otherwise. Nothing.

"All I'm saying is, maybe you're overreacting a little bit," Ron attempts again valiantly.

"You don't know him as well as I do."

"What, you think he's playing mind-games with you? The guy's been locked up in a bloody diary for fifty years, give him a break!"

Harry hesitates. Does he think that Tom is playing mind-games with him? He's not sure of that. He's not sure of anything anymore. Everything has turned into such a huge mess he doesn't even know where to start on fixing it. What is he supposed to do?

"Just go talk to him, mate," Ron says as he nudges him with his elbow, and Harry wants to protest, wants to explain how Ron couldn't possibly understand, that Tom has a way with twisting words like a noose you'll happily wrap around your own neck—then he remembers the smiles, the touches, the looks.

All of that couldn't have been a game, could it? It couldn't  _all_ have been fake, right? Of course not. Why is he even asking himself this? Of course it wasn't all fake. Tom does see something in him, yes, Harry is something to him, but in all honesty he's scared to find out what.

He really doesn't want to have to think about this right now.

"We'll see."

* * *

The library is pleasantly quiet at this time of day, nearly completely deserted right before dinner time, and Hermione delights in its serenity as she flips through the pages of the book in front of her,  _Intermediate Transfiguration_. She's tucked away in a corner behind large shelves, sitting at a table by the window as soft light from a setting sun falls through the glass onto yellowed parchment. She dips her long, white quill into the small bottle of ink before starting the process of formulating notes—five chapters ahead of what they're discussing in class, as it is an introductory chapter on Vanishing Spells, which they won't be properly taught until fifth year.

Hermione's quill moves with quick and precise elegance as she studies the text and picks out the core as easily as a cherry from a bush. Focused as she is, however, halfway through her bit of parchment her mind starts drifting off a bit, to Ron and Harry, the latter of which seemed rather upset during Ancient Runes today.

She didn't have the chance to catch up to him and ask what happened, considering how he stormed out of the classroom shortly after, but she hopes he'll be in a better mood during dinner. It frustrates her at times that she can't shield him like she sometimes wants to—it's unfair how much Harry has had to deal with, not just this year alone, but his whole life. Yet throughout it all, he remains so noble and compassionate, if a bit pigheaded and reckless.

Ron will probably manage to cheer him up a bit, she thinks to herself. The youngest Weasley boy is much better at that than she is; he sometimes seems to know exactly when Harry needs to hear a joke or when he just needs someone to listen. Hermione envies him a bit for that, but admires it much more. She's not nearly as in-tune with others as Ron is.

Hermione has never been very good at reading people; no, she can do much better with a book than she can with a person.

"That sentence isn't going to finish itself, you know,"

Her heart jumps to her throat and she nearly shrieks as Tom suddenly appears across from her, seated at the table with a small smile and mirth in his eyes. Hermione takes a deep breath with a hand on her heart.

"You scared me!"

Tom's smile widens just a bit. "I noticed," He watches her gently put her quill down, hand trembling slightly. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Oh, I don't mind," Hermione replies quickly, maybe a bit too eagerly, and flushes a bit, averting her gaze to her parchment. "I was just, well, I wasn't doing anything important." She's still a bit bemused, though more by his presence alone than his sudden entrance, but too timid to ask what he's doing here.

"Vanishing Spells," Tom says, staring at the title of the chapter in her book, eyebrows arching slightly. "Do you mean to actually practice one?"

"I'd like to, but the theory seems so complicated. I'm not sure if I could—"A slender hand reaches over, and shuts her book with a snap that startles her into silence. Hermione looks up at Tom questioningly, who seems entirely serious.

"Surely a witch as bright as you can see how useless theory is at this point?"

Before she can blush at the compliment, she bristles in some indignation at his blasphemous words. "What do you mean,  _useless_?"

"How do you think I taught Harry how to subvert the Principle Exceptions to Gamp's Law?" Tom responds smoothly, the sunlight gleaming in his eyes like a bright spark. "By stamping theory into his head?"

Hermione's mouth opens briefly to retort, then closes again when she realises she doesn't have a retort to that. Tom is right. Harry is a very practical learner—he does best by practising, by  _doing_. Hermione spent hours trying to figure out how to break the Exceptions, trying to find any reading material on the subject, but had come up empty, and was far too prideful to ask Harry how he'd done it.

Now, however, Tom is dangling the answer right in front of her, and she thinks he knows it too by the intent look in his eyes, daring her to ask.

"I see," Hermione replies softly, folding her hands neatly on the table and meeting Tom's look with a steady gaze of her own. "Where did you learn how to do that, if I might ask?"

"I figured it out by myself," Tom responds matter-of-factly, neither humble nor arrogant.

"Did you also figure out how to split your soul and bind it into an object by yourself?"

She watches his reaction like a hawk—the corners of his mouth twitch in amusement, the look in his eyes is briefly surprised, but nothing more than that. It doesn't entirely abate her suspicion, however; this Tom Riddle is undoubtedly a genius, so why has she never heard of him before? Not to mention that everything she's found referencing soul magic generally suggests that most of it is dark and twisted, considering that the soul isn't meant to be trifled with. As charming and brilliant as he is, Hermione isn't entirely sure if she should trust him.

"Why, yes," Tom answers to her astonishment, and then something in his eyes changes. He appears almost sad, regret-filled gaze dropping down to the table, and she immediately wishes she could take her words back. "When I was around your age, I was very fond of experimenting with magic, pushing the limits as far as they could go—and you see where it got me."

It was so unfeeling of her to bring that up without thinking. He must've been just like her, wanting to find out, having this burning desire to know, to achieve, and then it backfired on him. Fifty years in a diary. She wonders with a mixture of horror and sympathy what that must've been like.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have… sorry." Cheeks burning with a bit of shame, she twists her quill around between her fingers, Tom's eyes following the movement.

"It's fine," he responds gracefully, and she peeks up at him to find a smile on his face, instantly setting her at ease. "You're right to be cautious of me, and I am glad Harry has a friend like you. He can be far too trusting of people, sometimes."

"I wish he'd be more careful," Hermione agrees, but having brought up the subject of Harry, her mind wanders again and she falls into a brief, contemplative silence as she puts her quill away and frowns down at her book. "You know, Harry has been a bit troubled, lately."

"Has he?"

"Forgive me for prying," she continues, nervously brushing a lock of hair back behind her ear, "but it's not going very well between you two, is it?"

"That's putting it lightly," Tom responds wryly. "I'm frankly at a loss as to what he wants from me. I've never been very good at reading people."

For a moment, she's almost shocked at the similarity. Wasn't that what she'd been thinking herself right before Tom showed up? They must really be more alike than she initially thought—but he shines so much brighter than she does. She's baffled that Tom has any insecurities at all.

"He'll come around," Hermione tries to reassure him. "This thing between you two is just very new to him, so I think he needs some time processing it, and…" She hesitates, but only very briefly because of her faux-pas from before. "And I could go talk to him for you, if you'd like?"

The smile Tom has on his face then is dazzling, and she's momentarily struck by his sheer radiance, like watching a flower bloom. "I'd be very grateful."

"It's-it's not a problem," she stammers, feeling jittery just thinking about how this handsome, brilliant, charming young man is looking at her, giving her his full attention.  _Her_. The bookworm, the know-it-all, the girl with the unmanageable hair and large front teeth.

"Now, about those Vanishing Spells," Tom says as he taps on her parchment with the tip of his finger and makes it disappear right before her eyes. "Would you like some tutoring on that?"

Hermione nods fervently, thick bangs bobbing up and down on her shoulders, and trying desperately to remain composed.

Not falling in love with Tom Riddle is very, very difficult.

* * *

He doesn't know how or why both his friends have suddenly become members of Tom's fan club, but it's starting to piss him off. First Ron, now Hermione; they advocate for him so persistently that if Harry didn't know better he'd think Tom was paying them to do it.

Then again, maybe he shouldn't be surprised. Tom is charm itself—of course he'd be able to persuade them onto his side, but on the other hand, both of them seem so _certain_  that Tom has done nothing wrong and Harry is merely blowing it out of proportion. It's starting to make him doubt himself and his gut-feeling. Is he really just overreacting to this?

"Won't you give him another chance?" Hermione asks him again a day later during lunch, and Harry barely resists the urge to hurl his sandwich at her.

"Don't be such a downer, Harry," Ron says later in the afternoon when they're walking down the stairs and Harry wonders what will happen if he gives his friend a little push.

"I'm sure you'll be able to talk it out!"

"You're being so bloody melodramatic."

"He really does want to make things right with you."

"Why don't you just—"

Harry never would've thought that he'd resort to hiding in the Owlery to escape from his two best friends, but at least Hedwig can't chide him or plead with him over Tom. It's gotten so bad that he doesn't even care about the arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students anymore that's supposed to be happening in thirty minutes, having decided to skip Snape's class altogether.

He leans out the glassless window with her perched on his shoulder, enjoying the cool breeze and silence.

Harry knows he's going to have to face Tom soon, but he hasn't made his mind up yet about where this is going. The truth is, Harry feels far too inadequate to ever picture himself with Tom the way he is now. Whether Tom agrees and is just playing around with his feelings or not, it's irrelevant if Harry can't even  _imagine_ setting that first step to begin with.

So what is he supposed to do?

"Fancy meeting you here."

Harry pulls away from the window ledge and looks toward the entrance of the Owlery, where Cedric is standing with a pleasantly surprised look and a letter in his hand. Harry hadn't even heard him come up the stairs.

"Hi," he says dumbly, not knowing what else to say. Between his friends and Tom, Harry had completely forgotten about the Hufflepuff.

"Hello," Cedric replies good-naturedly, walking over to his own owl. "Haven't seen you in a while."

"Oh." Hasn't it only been a few days?

A brief silence follows, where Cedric glances at him with raised eyebrows. "You're not in a very chatty mood today, are you?"

Now Harry is starting to feel a bit bad about acting like a sack of potatoes. It's not Cedric's fault that his friends have been pestering him the whole day. "It's just, er, I have a lot on my mind."

Cedric, owl on his forearm, walks over to stand to the window next to his, his bird hopping down on the ledge so its owner can tie the letter to his foot. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I wouldn't want to bore you with it." Harry mutters, absent-mindedly petting Hedwig who nips at his ear when he's starting to annoy her, making him flinch in surprise and pull back his hand. Cedric chuckles at that, his laughter a bit infectious, and Harry soon finds himself smiling slightly.

"I don't mind listening," the Hufflepuff assures him as he watches his owl fly up into the air. "Sometimes we all just need someone to listen, right?"

Harry is taken aback by that; not only just by how considerate Cedric is but how earnest he looks and sounds when he says that. It's a completely different feeling than the one he has with Tom, where it seems like there are layers and layers to him that Harry needs to peel off. With Cedric, the layers are already peeled, the centre in full view. It makes Harry  _want_ to trust him, rather than be seduced into trusting him.

"Well," he starts, "there's… there's this person that I really like, but I'm not sure if it's, erm, mutual."

"Ah, a common problem," Cedric nods understandingly.

"We're friends and all, we spent a lot of time together and we even kissed once, but—"

At this, the Hufflepuff's eyes widen before he interrupts Harry. "Hold on a minute, you  _kissed_?"

"Uh, yeah," Harry replies awkwardly.

"And you still don't know if this person fancies you back?"

"Yeah," At Cedric's silence, Harry is starting to grow a little anxious. "What is it?"

The older student frowns slightly, looking at him and appearing a bit conflicted. "I don't think you need my opinion on this, really."

"I'd like to hear it," Harry answers unthinkingly and surprises not only Cedric but himself with it as well. It shouldn't, though, considering that Cedric undoubtedly has to have more experience in these kinds of things compared to Harry, so he would be able to provide some insight.

"Well, since you're asking," Cedric still doesn't seem entirely at ease as he talks, "and I don't meant to make any assumptions about this friend of yours, it's really not my place… but if you're still not sure if someone likes you even after they kissed you, then that's a pretty bad sign."

Harry feels his heart sink into his stomach, even though somewhere he expected this, he'd known this right from the start. "So you think he's—" The slip-up makes him stammer, "—t-they're, that  _they're_ , uh…"

Cedric mercifully pretends not to have heard. "I'm not saying that they're messing around with you. Like I said, I don't want to make assumptions seeing as how I don't know this person, but a kiss usually tells you a lot."

"But," Harry says, half-wondering why he's even trying, why he's protesting at all when he already knows the answer. "But my other friends seem so sure that he likes me."

"I think you should just do what you feel is right," Cedric replies with a shrug. "Your friends are not the ones who are going to have to deal with heartbreak if they're wrong."

Harry's shoulders slump in defeat and he turns to lean with his arms onto the ledge, a hollow feeling in his gut, limbs feeling heavy. Hedwig coos comfortingly in his ear in an attempt to soothe him, but it's futile. He doesn't know anymore, and he doesn't want to think about it anymore either—not about the possibilities nor the consequences, the meaning behind every word and every touch and every look, it's all starting to make his head hurt.

"Hey," he feels a hand briefly touch on his shoulder, startling him slightly, but it feels warm and strong, a stark contrast to Tom's cold, slender fingers. He looks up at Cedric, who's now standing next to him with a sympathetic smile. "You're not going to sulk over some boy, are you?" he says, and Harry sputters while he grows red, but can't get a word out as Cedric laughs and grabs him by the arm, starting to tug him along.

"What-where are we going?" Harry doesn't resist, though he's a bit bewildered at this sudden shift in tone. Hedwig flies off his shoulder back into her nest as her owner is pulled toward the stairs.

"To the pitch," Cedric replies cheerfully. "Maybe some Quidditch will help?"

"I don't know—"

"Come on, Potter! Don't tell me you're scared of a one-on-one?" The Hufflepuff grins playfully, and Harry slowly finds himself grinning back, mood lifting instantly. He can see now why Cedric is so popular—he brightens up the whole room like the sun, light and easy and upbeat. Exactly what Harry needs right now.

"You want a rematch, Diggory?"

"Of course," Cedric smirks mischievously, letting him go once they're at the stairs, starting to head down the steps in a swift pace. "And I don't intend to lose this time!"

"We'll see about that," Harry shoots back, following him down quickly and actually feeling excited about something for what feels like the first time in a long while. By the time they're downstairs it's become a race and both boys are sprinting to see who can reach the field first.

They completely forget about the scheduled arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students—not that it matters when there's Quidditch to be played, Snitches to be caught and broom tricks to be showed off in a constant competition of one-upmanship.

And if Harry happily collapses onto the grass afterwards, laughing heartily at Cedric who's imitating one of Malfoy's  _my-father-_ monologues, then the Triwizard tournament, and Tom, and Ron, and Hermione, and all of Hogwarts can collectively bugger off.

He's going to simply lay here and enjoy the sun.


	20. Chapter 20

“Where _were_ you?” Hermione demands to know late in the evening when they find him tucked into the corner of the Gryffindor common room, staring out the window with a Potions book in his lap.

Harry blinks up at her languidly from behind his glasses, feeling the pleasant fatigue from a fun-filled afternoon of Quidditch practice. He shrugs half-heartedly, slouching into the comfortable armchair as more Gryffindors pour into the room, all abuzz about the new arrivals. He’s not as annoyed with his friends anymore, but that doesn’t mean he has forgiven them for the perceived switch to Tom’s team as opposed to staying on his. Nevertheless, spending time with a new friend has done him some good.

“You really missed out, mate,” Ron says with a broad grin, immediately launching into an enthusiastic description of the impressive arrivals, Hermione filling him in with factual details every now and then. The carriage had flying horses (winged horses—Abraxans), the ship was travelling underwater (which is a breach of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy), the Headmistress of Beauxbatons is a giant ( _half_ -giant) and by Merlin, Harry— _Viktor Krum_!

Harry is simply content to listen, in truth not all that interested in their guests but glad they’re back to talking about something other than Tom Riddle. Hermione tries to get in a word about the Goblet of Fire and the selection procedure for three supposed champions from each school to compete in the three tasks, but Ron's excited babbling about Krum cuts her off so many times she sighs and gives up halfway through.

“So what were you up to, exactly?” Hermione questions him with a frown once Ron is done rambling about Viktor Krum, clearly disapproving of his skipping out on a mandatory event.

“I was in the field,” Harry replies easily, finger tracing random lines in the fogged up glass of the window—he recalls seeing Tom do it once, drawing a strange symbol, something with a triangle. “Played some Quidditch with Cedric.”

His friends are silent. Notably so. Harry looks away from the glass, and up to their faces. Ron appears entirely confused and almost a little disoriented, while Hermione’s frown has deepened and sharpened into a scowl.

“You were with Cedric?” she repeats, glaring at him as if daring him to say yes.

Harry looks from one friend to the other, a little bemused by the severity of their reactions, wondering if he said something wrong. "Yes?" Hermione looks scandalized. "Er. I mean—no?”

“I thought you were in love with T…" She halts, glancing nervously at the at-once interested Gryffindors around them, not so subtly eavesdropping on their conversation. "I mean with… with you-know!”

“With _You-Know_?” Harry repeats wryly, raising his eyebrows.

His sardonic humour is not appreciated.

“Harry! I’m being serious!” Hermione chastises, though at least Ron seems amused, and he tries his very best to hide it from Hermione’s scalding glare. "It really doesn't seem like a good idea to start something with Cedric when you're not even clear with... well, _You-Know_. That's just asking for trouble."

Harry sighs. Of course he knows that beginning another relationship is a horrible idea, but just because he spent an afternoon with a guy doesn't mean he's all head-over-heels now. But, as emotionally stunted as his childhood has been, he's not quite sure how to put this into words without feeling utterly embarrassed. The Dursleys never talked about _feelings_. He's not sure he knows how to start doing it now.

Unfortunately Hermione isn't telepathic and still staring at him and she's opening her mouth again to continue her lecture—in his best interest, yes, but annoying nonetheless—and he should do something about this before his ears start bleeding.

Realizing that she probably won’t get the message unless he’s adamant, Harry decides being assertive is the best way to handle the situation. Mainly because he doesn't quite know how else to handle it.

Yes, okay. Assertive and confident. He can manage that. 

“Look, guys, can we _please_ forget about this?" Well, maybe not quite yet. "I know you’re trying to look out for me and I guess teenagers are supposed to… I don’t know, despair about their love-life or something, but I’m tired of this. Whatever’s between Tom and me is going to stay between, um, the two of us, okay?” He pauses, taking in the hesitant looks he’s being given, and emphasises: “This is something I have to figure out for myself.”

Hermione looks conflicted, ever so fond of giving advice, but Ron is more easily persuaded. Mostly because he's always been a bit uncomfortable and out of his depth talking about anything to do with relationships.

“Sure, if that’s what you want,” he agrees readily, Harry nodding both in affirmation and appreciation as he gets up from the chair with his book in hand. Ron switches the subject in an instant. “So, the welcoming feast—I’ve _got_ to tell you about the Beauxbatons girls. Or, uh, the blokes, if you want. Doesn’t really matter; the whole bloody school is filled with supermodels, I swear!”

Feeling a flood of relief at how easily things have clicked right back into place, Harry grins. “Don’t start drooling on yourself. They’re still the enemy, you know.”

“The _enemy_!” Hermione mocks, rolling her eyes. “The whole point of the tournament is international magical cooperation—to make friends, not enemies.”

“Aha, so Ron’s not the only one drooling on himself.”

“That’s not—” She flushes an embarrassed pink while Ron makes a gagging noise. “That’s quite beside the point.”

“Oh Merlin, don’t tell me you’re fancying one of those _French_ boys?” Ron says with a groan, him and Harry starting to move toward the boys’ dorms with Hermione trailing behind them.

“What’s wrong with French boys?” Hermione asks in bemusement.

“They’re French!” Ron exclaims indignantly, causing Harry to crack into a fit of snickering as Hermione's face gradually turns into the shade of a tomato.

“You’re ridiculous! I’ll have you know that Beauxbatons has quite a large number of students from countries all over Europe such as Spain, Portugal, Belgium, the Netherlands—”

As his two friends bicker on, Harry grins watching them, knowing that at least their loyalties aren’t so easily bought by a charming smile. Unfortunately, the grin falters just as easily as it formed when his thoughts lead him back, as they so often do, to Tom.

His afternoon with Cedric has done him a lot of good and put him in a great mood, but there’s still the question of what to do with this blurry relationship that’s been bothering him for the past week now. He’s thought about it extensively while everyone else was at the welcoming feast, finding peace in the quiet of the common room, and the truth is he’s no closer than figuring this out than he was three hours ago.

But maybe trying to figure out someone as enigmatic as Tom is exactly the wrong way to go about it entirely. Maybe the answer is far simpler than trying to play a chess game against an opponent who taught him how to play in the first place. Maybe, instead of trying to play it Tom’s way, Harry should be playing the game his _own_ way.

It’s time to have a chat with Riddle.

* * *

"I don't understand, my Lord," is the first thing that 'Moody' says the minute Tom slips back into his office after the festivities of the feast have died down, finding him a jittery wreck of anxiety. "How is it possible--"

"You're wondering if I'm the same Lord Voldemort you've met a sparse few months ago," Tom asserts, cutting him off cleanly as he lingers near the doorway for a moment longer before wandering further into the classroom.

He himself was not so foolish as to wander into the Great Hall during the festivities, no matter how curious he was to see what had become of Durmstrang after all these decades—an institution that was the source of many a Death Eater in the past, and far more accepting of the Dark Arts than Hogwarts. Nevertheless, Tom would not risk it. Not with Dumbledore present.

'Moody' goes to stand behind his desk when Tom approaches, as if hoping the bit of furniture will offer protection. He is—not frightened, not entirely. Wary, perhaps.

Tom smiles, and remains silent.

"Yes," the man breathes when Tom does not elaborate further, instead walking towards the windows in a slow stroll, standing still in front of the ledge and gathering up the thin layer of dust with a finger.

"The real answer to that is a complex one I have neither time nor interest in discussing with you," he responds in clipped tones, rubbing the dirt off between his thumb and index finger. Not too long ago he wouldn't even be able to touch the windowsill, let alone leave a mark on it. "Let us just say that I am a different version of him, intended as a fail-safe. That's all you need to know."

'Moody' inclines his head. He would not be so foolish to doubt after the Dark Mark reacted to Tom's touch. "Of course."

Turning to face the impostor now, Tom peers at his face curiously, noting that the Polyjuice Potion seems to be in full effect. He must've taken more during the feast itself. "And what about you? _You_ are certainly not Alastor Moody."

"No, my Lord," the man murmurs, eyes cast down to the floor and his head still respectfully bowed. "My name is Bartemius Crouch Jr."

The name makes Tom pause. Something tugs at his memory—no, not _his_ , but Lord Voldemort's, whatever he absorbed from the Horcrux. He can almost visualise it: Bartemius Crouch, a severe looking man with a permanent scowl on his face, and a fool who so generously polarised wizarding society through his brutal and merciless tactics against the Death Eaters.

His paranoia against anything to do with the Dark Arts allowed more radicalisation among pureblood society, among ancient families who'd had histories of it. Without Crouch's unorthodox methods, Lord Voldemort would've never been able to gather the army he did then—such a simple thing to grow when the seeds have already been planted.

It is a faint recalling; not of a single memory, but of all of them, blended into one whole of faces, voices, words. A mass of people blurred together, a captive audience. There is the subtle thrill of their fear, of their anger, and then his hand, outstretched to them in friendship.

_See? See what they're doing to you, to us? They're hunting us down like dogs._

_Persecution and prejudice; they hate you, they hate the old ways. Their blood has forgotten and they're afraid of you—_ you _, who have preserved so much of our history. You remember, you_ honour _, and they despise you for it._

_If Bartemius Crouch has his way, there won't be any pure blood left. They'll have the muggles take over; they'll have the legacies of your ancestors destroyed._

_Are you just going to let that happen?_

_Let me save you. Let me save_ us _._

“Ah,” Tom’s distant gaze returns to lucidity with a blink. “I see. Your father is still around, is he not?”

A muscle twitches in Crouch’s jawline. “Not for long, my Lord.”

“An admirable goal—but that is not what I wanted to talk about,” Tom says, frowning slightly at himself for having gotten distracted. Still, it is good to practice sifting through the other Horcrux’ memories—while he has absorbed them, recalling them does not come naturally to him, like old books stored away at the top of the shelf, just out of reach. It is frustrating.

“You want to know about your… your _other_ self, my Lord?” Crouch infers accurately, though he appears somewhat reluctant.

“Clearly,” Tom confirms, scrutinising Crouch’s increasingly uncomfortable posture as the man shifts his weight around, tapping at the desk with his fingers. “I assume he is still weakened and in hiding, but evidently he’s plotting something or he wouldn’t have had an agent infiltrate the school. How dire are his circumstances?”

Crouch does not even dare to glance at him while he answers, speaking quickly as his glass eye darts about erratically in its socket. “Very dire, my Lord. He is left severely—” A hesitant pause. “—crippled, if you understand. He needs the boy to recover. He needs Harry Potter.”

Tom suspected as much; a dark ritual to regain the body that he lost the moment the spell rebounded, and he needs Harry’s blood for it to work. The question then is, how is he expecting to manage it? Tom eyes Crouch sceptically. An abduction, right on school grounds? That would be risky considering the anti-Apparition wards, even with the Triwizard Tournament as a distraction—but it is the most immediate course of action.

“How does he expect to snatch The Boy Who Lived right out from under Dumbledore’s very nose?”

At this, Crouch actually dares a smile, a mad glint reflected in his good eye. “A portkey, my Lord.”

Tom narrows his eyes, the sharp rebuttal on the tip of his tongue: the castle has wards against portkeys, you can’t simply smuggle one in and expect it to—

But then he understands.

“The Triwizard Tournament.”

Crouch’s smile widens into a crooked grin. “The Triwizard Cup, my Lord. The last task is a maze.”

Tom turns his back on Crouch, stare aimed at the window without actually looking outside as he ponders the little plot.

In theory, the plan has its advantages. With Crouch posing as Moody, the last task can be rigged entirely in Harry’s favour, ensuring he’ll be the one to touch the portkey. It would be done in complete isolation—for all the audience would know, Harry would’ve simply disappeared into the maze. A perfect cover, ensuring Lord Voldemort the time he needs to rebuild his army in complete secrecy.

He can imagine it already. Harry will think solely of victory with the cup right in his grasp, only to be torn down mercilessly once he touches the portkey. Lord Voldemort would practically revel in his suffering once he recovers his body, before bringing the boy to a swift and sudden end.

“No,” Tom says before he even fully comprehends what he’s said, the word slipping from him as if his voice was stolen and used by another.

“My Lord?”

_Why did I say no?_

“This is far too risky a manner to go about acquiring his blood,” Tom asserts nevertheless because he won’t lose face in front of a subordinate, even as the bemusement at his own instinctive reaction rages inside his mind. Foreign, immediate, a reflexive flinch at the sting of a needle—and then, a slow but repulsive realisation dawning on him like an unseen horror.

He prefers Harry Potter alive.

 _‘Ah, finally!'_ faux-Dumbledore pipes up, opportunistic weasel that he is. _‘I was getting rather tired of repeating myself.’_

“But… the Dark Lord insists—”

“I do want him dead,” Tom snaps, to both of them. Only one of them flinches. “But this isn’t the way to go about it.”

It is ironic, how preferring him alive has now spurred Tom's want for Harry's death instead. Preference and wanting need not be the same thing, not for a well-disciplined mind. Only his apathy could've spared Potter—now, he is convinced. The Boy Who Lived must die before he poisons Tom's mind even further. But not yet.

_‘Oh Tom, we're really going in circles now, aren't we?’_

Crouch clears his throat. “What would you propose, my Lord?”

“If his blood is all you need, why bother with such an elaborate abduction?” Tom stares at the glass of the window, at his reflection, and the deep frown etched into its face while he attempts to ignore the deranged illusion of his former teacher. “I can get you the blood; Potter need not know—once my other self has regained his body, it would be a simple thing to kill him whenever Lord Voldemort likes.”

 _‘Such pretty excuses we tell ourselves when the truth is too uncomfortable to face,’_ faux-Dumbledore muses wearily while Crouch grows even more jittery in the background.

No, you're wrong—Tom tells faux-Dumbledore these things far too often, and yet the voice never listens. Harry Potter must die. He is my enemy. His fate is sealed. This is what I want (what he thinks he wants, what he should want, what he knows he has to want because otherwise he doesn't know who he is anymore and that isn't possible because he's _always_ known who he is, his identity and his values and principles and it is a point of pride; this is who Tom Riddle is—was— _should be_ —but isn't. Not anymore.).

“Very well, but…” Crouch fidgets, hesitates, pulling Tom's attention back to him, and it is trying to be talking to two people at once. His mind is fatigued. “The Dark Lord will not be pleased with this. Perhaps you could meet with him in person, talk to him?”

_‘He'll see right through you. He'll sense your doubt, your insecurity. What will you do then?’_

Tom’s jaw clenches—Crouch pales.

“That would be difficult,” he admits in clipped tones, a dull thudding heat in the back of his head delivering the promise of his first headache in decades. “My essence is bound to a diary, which so happens to be in possession of Harry Potter.”

 _‘Think carefully, Tom,’_ faux-Dumbledore urges gravely, his words echoing almost in sync with the beat of pain in Tom's skull. _‘Your other self is injured—unhinged, a wounded animal driven to a corner as it were. Do you truly believe he’ll ever see you as something more than a spare, a lacking one at that? Do you trust him not to lash out?’_

Tom’s nails dig into his palms, but he does not reply except with the feeling of bitter ire and scorn, which he suspects is only motivating the voice in his head even further.

Crouch says nothing about the stark irony of the situation, too afraid to set him off. “Yes, of course. I’ll get the diary—whatever you need, my Lord.”

 _‘He will use you,’_ faux-Dumbledore continues. _‘You know this as well as I do, because that is what you would do in his place. You cannot trust him.’_

“Good,” Tom responds curtly to Crouch. “I will let you know when it’s time.”

_‘You are making a mistake.’_

As his form fades away before Crouch’s very eyes and his consciousness instantly returns to the diary, Tom answers faux-Dumbledore with little more than adamant silence.

It won’t be a mistake.

Tom Riddle doesn't make mistakes.

* * *

The next morning is a cloudy Saturday—Halloween. The first thing Harry hears when he wakes up is, predictably, about the Triwizard Tournament. Dean and Seamus are discussing it amongst themselves, the latter ignoring Harry completely while the former at least deigns to give him a polite good morning before continuing his speculation on who will be chosen Hogwarts' Champion.

In truth, Harry could care less. He'd much rather have Quidditch than watching whatever it is the Tournament has in store for them; he's had enough possibly lethal excitement in his life already, thank you very much.

Once he manages to rouse Ron to get dressed and head downstairs, they discover that most Gryffindors are already awake as well, despite it being rather early in the morning for a Saturday. When they meet up with Hermione in the common room and go down into the entrance hall, they even see about twenty people milling around it, some of them eating toast, all examining the Goblet of Fire.

It has been placed in the centre of the hall on the stool that normally bears the Sorting Hat. A thin golden line has been traced on the floor, forming a circle ten feet around it in every direction.

"Anyone put their name in yet?" Ron asks a third-year girl eagerly.

"All the Durmstrang lot," she replies. "But I haven't seen anyone from Hogwarts yet."

"Bet some of them put it in last night after we'd all gone to bed," Harry remarks. "I would've if it had been me. Wouldn't have wanted everyone watching. What if the goblet just spat you right back out again?"

There's laughter behind him. Turning, he sees Fred, George, and Lee Jordan hurrying down the staircase, all three of them looking extremely excited.

"Done it," Fred says in a triumphant whisper to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "Just taken it."

"What?" Ron frowns in confusion.

"The Aging Potion, dung brains."

"One drop each!" George adds, rubbing his hands together with glee. "We only need to be a few months older."

"We're going to split the thousand Galleons between the three of us if one of us wins," Lee clarifies, grinning broadly.

"I'm not sure this is going to work, you know," Hermione chimes in with a warning look. "I'm sure Dumbledore will have thought of this."

Fred, George, and Lee happily ignore her.

"Ready?" Fred asks the other two, quivering with excitement. "C'mon, then, I'll go first—

Harry watches, fascinated, as Fred pulls a slip of parchment out of his pocket bearing the words _Fred Weasley - Hogwarts_. Fred walks right up to the edge of the line and stands there, rocking on his toes like a diver preparing for a fifty-foot drop. Then, with the eyes of every person in the entrance hall upon him, he takes a great breath and steps over the line.

For a split second Harry thinks he pulled it off—George certainly thinks so, letting out a triumphant yell and leaping after Fred—but then a loud sizzling sound, and both twins are hurled out of the golden circle. They land painfully, ten feet away on the cold stone floor, and to add insult to injury there is a brief _pop_ before two identical white beards sprout spontaneously from both of their chins.

The entrance hall bursts with laughter. Even Fred and George join in once they've gotten to their feet and taken a good look at each other's beards.

"I did warn you," comes a deep, amused voice, and everyone turns to see Professor Dumbledore coming out of the Great Hall. He surveys Fred and George, his eyes twinkling. "I suggest you both go up to Madam Pomfrey. She is already tending to Miss Fawcett and Mr. Summers, both of whom decided to age themselves up a little too. Though I must say, neither of their beards is as fine as yours."

Fred and George set off for the hospital wing, accompanied by Lee, who is still howling with laughter, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione, also chortling, go in to breakfast.

The decorations in the Great Hall have changed this morning. As it is Halloween, a cloud of live bats are fluttering around the enchanted ceiling, while hundreds of carved pumpkins leer from every corner. Harry leads the way over to the Gryffindor table where Dean, Seamus and Neville are discussing those Hogwarts students of seventeen or over who might be entering.

"There's a rumor going around that Warrington got up early and put his name in," Dean tells Harry when he sits down next to him. "You know, that big bloke from Slytherin who looks like a sloth."

"And all the Hufflepuffs are talking about Diggory," Seamus adds contemptuously—the first words he's spoken to Harry in the past few weeks, and they're predictably negative ones. "But I wouldn't have thought he'd have wanted to risk his good looks."

Harry bites on the inner side of his cheek. No point in causing a scene; Seamus can think whatever he likes, even if Harry would very much like to tell him to piss off. The words are right there, balanced on the tip of his tongue—

"Has anyone seen Viktor Krum?" Ron awkwardly changes the subject with a glance toward Harry, who hadn't realized he'd been glaring until Hermione gives him a pointed look.

"How should I know?" Seamus shrugs. "On his fancy ship, probably."

Breakfast continues a bit awkwardly, though no love is lost between either Harry or Seamus.

Silly how when he first came to Hogwarts that he assumed everyone in his House—in his year, even—would automatically be his friend on the mere basis of them all being Gryffindors. Turns out bravery and boldness aren't always positive traits to have (especially when you're being bold about your bigotry), and the lion isn't inherently better than the snake.

"What're we going to do today, then?" Ron asks after breakfast as the trio walks towards the exit of the Great Hall, back into the entrance hall. Harry is about to suggest visiting Hagrid as they manoeuver around the group of students milling about the Goblet of Fire, when he sees a familiar figure standing near the stone stairways, unmistakably tall and poised, with an even gaze boring right through him.

"You guys go on ahead," Harry mutters distractedly, already walking towards Tom.

"Harry?"

"I'll catch up later!" he calls back over his shoulder, Tom already turning around and heading up the steps, his black robe flowing like silk behind him. Harry follows without saying a word, just a few steps behind Tom as they go up while everyone else is going down—on a day like this, with so much going on barely anyone will be wandering the halls of the upper floors. They’ll have privacy there.

Tom pauses at the landing on the seventh floor and heads into the corridor leading to the left wing. Harry hurries to catch up with his large strides, slightly out of breath. It belatedly occurs to him that they’re headed for the Room of Requirement.

“Tom, wait,” Harry calls after him. “We need to—”

“I’d like to show you something.”

Harry frowns slightly but doesn’t protest, watching Tom pace three times in front of the hidden entrance of the room before a simple, white wooden door with a golden doorknob surfaces in the stone. Tom opens it, walking in, and after a moment’s hesitation Harry follows.

The Room of Requirement comes in the shape of a circular space with white marble floors and pillars and an elaborate mosaic on the ceiling—the Tree of Knowledge, the apple, and the serpent wrapped around a branch. A metal basin sits in the centre of the room right below the colourful mosaic on top of a small table, vaguely familiar runes and strange symbols etched into it. It’s a pensieve.

“You want to show me a memory?” Harry questions, lingering near the doorway as Tom walks towards the pensieve, the glow of the silvery substance giving an almost inhuman glow to his face, and for a moment he looks as if he were a mere memory of a person—less, even, than a ghost.

“Ordinarily I would use the diary, but it is too draining,” Tom clarifies, pressing a finger to his temple, and when he pulls it away a string of pure silver comes with it. A memory, literally plucked right out of his mind, and gently dropped into the pensieve.

Harry walks closer, standing at some distance from Tom but too curious not to look. He glances into the basin, and the liquid—or smoke? He isn’t quite sure—inside is swirling erratically, its silver taking on much darker, grey tones but he can’t make out anything else. He’s learned about pensieves in Ancient Runes, though he’s never gotten to see one before.

“What do you want to show me?” he asks warily, because he doesn’t know with Tom anymore. Doesn’t know his intent, if this is part of the game or something sincere, and that puts him on edge.

Tom looks at him, his face carefully blank. “It occurred to me that you must have some misgivings about my character. I’d like to disillusion you, if you haven’t been already.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You have a very high opinion of me, Harry,” Tom’s lips slip into a smile, slight and almost bitter. “The higher the pedestal, the harsher the fall. I’m not as perfect as you think I am.” He gestures to the pensieve—shoulders tense, expression stiff, the tone of his voice almost demure. Harry doesn’t know what to think, but if this is really another memory, then he can’t say no to finding out more about Tom.

Taking a deep breath, he carefully bends down closer to the surface of the odd substance inside the pensieve, when a strange pull has him bending down even further and he plunges in headfirst, off-balance, feeling as if he’s falling, or sinking, or both at the same time inside a pool of black. Blurred images flash him by, noises and voices echoing distantly—

And then, he is in a room.

Breathing hard and fast, Harry looks around, bewildered. A hand presses gently onto the curve of his back to steady him—Tom stands next to him, entirely unruffled and his gaze focused elsewhere.

Harry pretends not to notice the pleasant weight of his palm and fingers, instead following Tom’s stare to the corner of the tiny bedroom they find themselves in.

There is a boy, with dark hair and pale skin and a steady gaze and he is unmistakably Tom Riddle, decades and decades ago. Harry watches, utterly fixated as this peculiar little version of his friend sits on his bed and quietly reads a book. He’s so small. Harry can barely wrap his mind around how this skinny little boy grew into a tall, graceful man, but he can see it in his eyes. The same focused stare, the same unshakable calm.

“How old were you?” he asks quietly, glancing at Tom from the corner of his eyes. The hand on his back is still there. The fingertips press into his skin.

“Seven,” Tom replies, just as quietly.

“Then this is the orphanage?”

Before he can get a response to that, the door behind them opens. Harry turns around, finding a short, plump woman with a severe expression and short, frizzled hair standing in the doorway, glowering at the boy in the corner with his large book.

“Have you learned your lesson yet?” she asks in clipped tones. Tom—the little one—looks up, nonplussed and not responding otherwise. “The next time I catch you stealing, I’ll lock you up in the attic, you understand?”

The boy seems to consider this for a moment, almost tentative, then nods.

“Good,” The woman doesn’t even sound pleased. “How are the hands? Still bruised?”

Little Tom lifts his hands—Harry breathes in sharply. He hadn’t noticed it before because they were hidden underneath the book, but the boy’s wrists are both swollen, matted with dark purple and blue bruises.

“We’ll put something on ‘em tomorrow,” the woman dismisses, then deigns to retreat when the small boy speaks for the first time, his voice quiet—subdued, so unlike the confident and commanding tones of the Tom Harry knows.

“I can’t eat with my both my hands broken.”

Harry grits his teeth, knowing that there's nothing he can do about this and that the past is untouchable, but he can't help but feel completely powerless, frustrated beyond measure. If only he could reach into the memory and do something, protect the small child in front of him from any more cruelties, maybe hex that bloody hag on top of it, but it is out of his reach.

The woman sneers. “Then don’t eat.” And she shuts the door. The boy returns to his book—resigned.

Harry turns to the Tom next to him in horror, in anger, in sheer disgust. Of course he endured his fair share of punishment with the Dursleys, but they never went so far as _this_ , they never broke his bones and let him starve on top of it.

But Tom appears unaffected, detached, as if these memories are not his but another’s. “They were rather unorthodox with their reprimands in the orphanage,” he remarks flippantly.

Before Harry can reply to that, the memory ends and the room around them disappears and they are back outside the pensieve in a chaotic and compressed instant. Harry blinks, briefly dazed at the strange sense of being spat back out, and then looks to Tom, whose expression is shielded. He doesn’t understand it.

“How did you stand it all?”

“I didn’t have a choice, much like you. We never knew any better, did we?” Tom swirls the silver fluid in the pensieve around nonchalantly with a finger, watching it drift into wispy shapes. “I took much of my anger out on the other children. They were almost every bit as horrid as the adults—I wasn’t _normal_ , not by their muggle standards, so I was a target. I often retaliated, in my own way. The matron of the orphanage assumed a harsh punishment would finally teach me a lesson.”

“So you stopped stealing?” Harry asks, equal parts curious and mortified and then slightly puzzled when Tom smiles in amusement.

“I stopped getting caught.”

Harry looks down, and can’t help himself—he glances at Tom’s hands, his long and spindly fingers, like that of a pianist. Supposedly deft fingers, if he's still got any skill with stealing. They're larger then his own, but not by that much. His would fit comfortably against Tom's.

“Why did you show me that?” Harry asks, tearing his gaze away from the hands and back up to the face.

It is a question that doesn’t need an answer, not really; it’s obvious why. Before now Harry had his doubts about Tom being entirely perfect, sure, but until that memory he didn’t realise that Tom carried some scars of his own. How did such a talented, charming person manage to emerge from such an abhorrent and foul place?

“I am flawed,” Tom tells him, and his right hand reaches up, cupping Harry’s cheek, and Harry can’t even hide behind his glasses anymore. “You have to remember that. I know as much about love—” Harry’s breath catches on the word “—as you do, perhaps even less. I can’t promise that I’ll never hurt you, only that I’ll do my best not to. If you were expecting something else, then I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything else to offer you.” _He said love he said love he said love he said_ love _._ “I make mistakes too, Harry.” _He loves_ —

No—Harry shakes his head and steps away, and Tom’s hand is left hanging in the air, his soft expression freezing over, but Harry is determined.

He’s not going to let this happen again. He’s not going to let Tom sweep him off his feet with pretty words and toy with his feelings in whatever way he pleases, not for a second time.

Harry has learned his lesson, where Tom has not.

“Sorry, I—sorry,” Harry swallows thickly, shaking his head again. “I can’t do this.”

Tom lets his hand drop to his side, face veiled with thin apathy masking cold ire. He says nothing, his eyes dark.

“You’re, I mean, this is just… I can’t do it like this,” Harry tries to explain, knowing very well that he’s fumbling completely but he hopes (prays) Tom will understand. “We’re not-we shouldn’t.”

Tom’s eyes narrow slightly. “And why not?”

“I know what you were trying to do with that memory. You’re flawed, and I’m flawed, sure, but that doesn’t make us equals. I still don’t feel as if…” Harry makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat—why is it so bloody hard to say it? To just translate the feelings in his gut into words and spit them out? “We’re just not _equal_!”

At this, Tom actually seems a bit surprised, a bit puzzled even. “Any given relationship typically has one party that’s more dominant than the other. If you’re worried about—”

“No, no, I mean,” Harry sighs, rubbing at his forehead. An old habit. “I mean first you play all these games, making me think that you’re serious, and when I call you out on it you-you _kiss_ me and I still have no idea what that was about, and now you’re showing me this really private memory—why can’t you just TELL me what you WANT?” Harry is slightly flushed as his tone almost raises to a yell at the end there, before he catches himself and breathes out quietly. “I don’t know who you are anymore, Tom.”

Tom is silent, staring at him as if seeing him for the first time, pondering as the anger fades from his eyes like snow in the sun. Harry feels similarly disoriented. He can’t read Tom’s face. He can’t read him at all. They are both strangers, in a way.

“I see,” Tom eventually speaks, remarkably composed—eyes clear of his previous irritation. He gives Harry another long look, before he stretches out his hand to him. “Then let’s be friends. For now."

Harry blinks. “What? Just-just like that?”

“Yes, just like that,” Tom says easily, seeming rather pleased with this solution, even. “There’s no hurry, is there? You _are_ rather young. Perhaps it’s better we wait.”

“Oh.”

Just like that.

Harry feels like a deflated balloon—he’s been worrying about this so much that having the situation resolved so easily just makes him feel like a silly little child. But this, this is ideal. Tom looks at him, friendly, understanding, so easily slipping right back into the role of a friend and mentor, and the familiar comfort of his presence eases back in, slowly.

Harry smiles, at first hesitant as he shakes Tom’s hand, then grinning widely when he receives a smile back. “Yeah, okay. Then we’ll wait.”

“I should like to show you some more of my memories, if you’d like,” Tom proposes—and Merlin, it’s like the past few months never happened. “I think it’s only fair since I know so much about you, but you so little about me.”

“I’d like that,” Harry agrees without having to think twice, relief like he hasn’t felt before soothing him. He was so scared that he was about to lose a friend over this that the joy of re-establishing that friendship makes him overlook the ease at which Tom switched attitudes, like he simply put on another mask. His mind is still reeling with the new information about Tom’s childhood, how similar (but certainly worse) it was to his own, and suddenly getting on equal footing with him doesn’t seem that impossible anymore.

It doesn't occur to him that every word, every twitch, every look was carefully calculated; another move on the chess board. It doesn't occur to him that there is no winning to this game, not once you start playing it. Or maybe it does occur to him, but he simply brushes it aside.

It's better this way. He's happier not knowing.

They leave the Room of Requirement and the pensieve behind—Tom retreats to his diary, stating that pulling out a memory was still a bit tiring, and Harry goes downstairs to look for Ron and Hermione. He finds them at Hagrid’s, visiting him for a cup of tea. They spend the Halloween day there, until evening strikes and it’s time for dinner as well as the Champions of the Triwizard Tournament to be revealed.

Viktor Krum, Fleur Delacour and Cedric Diggory all have their names spat out of the Goblet of Fire. They retreat to a chamber in the back of the Great Hall, where they will be receiving instructions.

Harry cheers for Cedric, who catches his eyes in the crowd and shoots him a beaming smile, but otherwise, the rest of the students are instructed to clear out.

(The Goblet never spits out a fourth name.)

Today has been a good day.


	21. Chapter 21

When Harry wakes up on Sunday morning, it takes him a moment to remember why he feels so light and content when the memory of the previous night rolls over him. He sits up and pulls back the curtains on his four-poster, glancing over at Ron’s bed and finding his friend already awake and in the midst of putting on a pair of very differently coloured socks—Tom stands near the windows, peering outside silently. Everyone else has left the dorms already.

“What? I couldn’t find a matching pair,” Ron mumbles when he spots Harry raising his eyebrows at the mismatched blue and white.

“You could use the Summoning Charm,” Tom remarks matter-of-factly, staring rather intently at something in the distance. “Is that the Durmstrang ship?” He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly. “It’s smaller than I expected.”

“What Summoning Charm?”

Tom turns to look at Ron, frowning slightly. “They haven't taught you yet?” Then he glances at Harry, who can’t keep his grin suppressed. “Remind me to teach you that one.”

“Hey, what about me?"

Everything really has gone back to normal—finally.

When they go down the spiral staircase into the common room, they find that most people are chatting eagerly about the newly chosen Hogwarts champion. The mood among the Gryffindors is generally merry—Hufflepuff is the only House that is well-liked by all other Houses, and everyone seems to be of the opinion that they deserve a little glory of their own. No one can deny that Cedric Diggory is a talented bloke and quite amiable on top of that.

In any case, most Gryffindors just seem to be happy that it’s not a Slytherin chosen as Hogwarts’ champion.

Harry tries to picture how the school might’ve reacted if that _had_ been the case, though the prospect of seeing Hogwarts unite behind Cedric is almost as bizarre. In his four years at the school he has never seen it come together for any cause, not even once; it has always been divided. For the first time, Harry wonders if the House-system is such a good idea after all. If there had never been a Slytherin or a Gryffindor, they might’ve all gotten along much better.

He glances at Tom from the corner of his eyes—if he had been chosen as Hogwarts champion, there is no doubt in Harry’s mind that he would’ve obliterated his competition, _casually_ at that.

“Even Seamus changed his tune,” Ron informs him then as he waves at Hermione who’s coming down the stairs from the girls’ dorms. “Won’t shut up about how great Cedric is.”

“He’s got a point,” Hermione chimes in immediately as she approaches, looking far more refreshed than the two still somewhat sleep-dazed boys in front of her. “The Goblet of Fire doesn’t just pick _any_ witch or wizard to compete, you know. I’ve been doing some reading—”

Ron groans.

“—and a huge majority of past Triwizard Tournament contestants, even the ones that didn’t win the Cup, went on to do great things later in life. Did you know that the first ever female Minister of Magic, Artemisia Lufkin, also competed in the Triwizard Tournament of 1772 as a Hufflepuff champion for Hogwarts?”

“Did she win?” Harry asks curiously.

It’s Tom who answers. “No, Beauxbatons did. A Valentin Belrose, if I remember correctly.”

“This is very interesting and all,” Ron cuts in, pausing for a moment to yawn, “but my breakfast is getting cold.”

Hermione tuts. “Don’t be silly, Ron—the plates are all charmed with preserving spells precisely to prevent that from happening.”

They descend down to the Great Hall nonetheless, Hermione filling Harry and Ron in on little facts and trivia from past Triwizard Tournaments, clearly having done her research on the subject ever since it was announced. Tom adds a minor detail here and there, but says little otherwise, disappearing when they’re about to enter the Great Hall—probably not interested in watching them eat.

Harry himself doesn’t mind listening to Hermione, finding it all quite interesting in truth, though once they sit down at the Gryffindor table Ron tunes her out instantly in favour of practically devouring his breakfast.

“You’re spilling it all over the place!” Hermione complains, taking out her wand and muttering a spell that cleans up all the spilled bits from the table and Ron’s sweater.

“Fanks,” Ron says with a mouth full of toast, Hermione scrunching up her nose in distaste while Harry quietly sips his tea, still trying to shake off the morning haze.

At that moment applause and cheers break out behind him, snapping him out of his haze far more effectively than the tea could’ve.

Harry and Ron turn simultaneously to see the cause of it, spotting a group of students gathered near the entrance of the hall. In the midst of the group is Cedric—he thanks the other students around him warmly, getting congratulatory pats on his shoulders and a few high-fives here and there.

He was popular before, but now it seems he’s risen to the status of an actual celebrity within Hogwarts. Even some Slytherins give him polite claps as he barely manages to escape his adoring crowd to sit down at the Hufflepuff table, which reacts notably calmer to his arrival. They’ve probably celebrated enough last night. At the staff table, Professor Sprout is practically exuding pride.

Harry has to turn a bit to look at where the Champion takes a seat almost right behind him, on the other side of the Hufflepuff table. Cedric looks to be positively beaming, his cheeks slightly flushed with a great big grin on his face.

It’s not Harry’s intention—he’s more than happy to observe him unnoticed—but he watches him for too long and accidentally catches Cedric’s eye. Upon spotting him staring, Cedric’s expression turns considerably softer, his smile almost timid, until Harry smiles back cheerfully and Cedric’s eyes light up. Harry half expects him to start waving at him, until a girl sits down next to him and his attention is pulled away from Harry.

It’s Cho Chang. The Ravenclaw Seeker kisses him on the cheek, and Harry turns away, looking back down at his breakfast. Suddenly he’s not so hungry anymore.

He notices Hermione watching him intently from across the table, and pretends not to see her, staring intently at his cup of tea.

“I think Honeydukes is having a sale in Hogsmeade,” she suggests tactfully. Ron is immediately on-board with the idea, Harry gratefully agreeing with his friends, and so after breakfast they set out to the little wizarding town.

* * *

Tom, as it so happens, decides to tag along when they head into Hogsmeade, his diary tucked safely into Harry’s bag. He hasn’t been to Hogsmeade yet, and seems curious to see how much it has (or hasn’t) changed.

“It looks exactly the same from a distance,” he murmurs quietly when Harry asks him about it, the four of them going down the road towards the village. He appears lost in thought—nostalgic—and it’s a peculiar look on him. Less guarded, for one. Harry decides he likes it.

(They’ve returned to their friendship, and Cedric is a wonderful distraction, but that doesn’t mean Harry isn’t hopelessly attracted to Tom anymore. That, he reckons, would be quite impossible to stop.)

They head into Honeydukes first, as planned. Harry isn’t all that big on candy, but he can’t resist the temptation of a few Cauldron Cakes and some chocolate sweets to share with his friends later. Hermione gets a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans just for the novelty, while Ron sticks with a bag of Glacial Snow Flakes.

When Harry sees Tom staring at the Liquorice Wands, he gives him a questioning look.

“They sold them during my time at Hogwarts as well,” Tom clarifies. “Unfortunately, I’ve never liked liquorice.”

“What did you like?” Harry asks inconspicuously, so as to not draw the attention of the visitors around him who can’t see Tom. He’d look like he was talking to himself, and Harry Potter having lost his marbles is a rumour he _doesn’t_ need at the moment.

Tom smiles slightly. “Chocolate. I’d never gotten any in the orphanage; it was considered a luxury back then.”

When they walk out of Honeydukes and on Hermione’s insistence head to the bookstore _Tomes and Scrolls_ , Harry leaves with his bag full—Tom tentatively thumbing a Chocolate Wand beside him.

* * *

In the bookstore, Hermione and Tom are the only ones who really browse the shelves while Ron and Harry simply wander, not looking for anything in particular.

“What d’you reckon the first task will be?” Ron asks, talking about the Tournament. “Something really flashy, I bet. In any case, I hope it’s not spiders.”

“You’re not even competing,” Harry answers with a slight frown. “Why does it matter if it’s spiders?”

“I hate spiders, you know that! Just _looking_ at the bloody things makes my skin crawl. God’s mistake, spiders are.”

Harry snorts in amusement, eyes flitting over various book titles in case he spots something interesting. “I bet they’re going to do something with the Great Lake. There’s a giant squid in there, right?”

“And grindylows, and merpeople,” Ron adds. “Think they’re gonna have to fight one of those three?”

“I don’t know about that, that seems a bit…” Harry trails off and stops when his eyes catch on a particular title—a dark purple, leather-bound book, quite slim and squeezed in between two thicker ones.

 _The Enigma of The Soul_ , by Godiva Osbert.

It completely slipped his mind with all that happened the past summer. Harry forgot about the tense period of time where something had happened to Tom that caused him to retreat into the diary for nearly a month, and forgot about his attempt to uncover what was really behind it, as well.

Back then he determined that Tom was less like a memory and more like a fragment of a soul, though he didn’t get any further than that. There was nothing even in the Restricted Section on the subject, and he was forced to abandon his research. This book here might offer him some answers, and maybe he should feel bad about going behind Tom's back, but if he can't get what he wants the right way, then the wrong way will have to do.

“Harry? What’re you looking at?” Ron asks, nudging him with his elbow. Harry quickly looks away from the book and back at his friend.

“Er, nothing, just—thinking,” he mutters as a poor excuse while he looks around for Tom, finding him standing several rows of bookcases away, focused on searching for reading material.

Ordinarily, if this were any other friend but Tom, Harry would just ask. In fact, after yesterday he should think that Tom would stop being so secretive, but the truth is that nothing is that simple with Tom. Harry already knows that he won’t get a straight answer as Tom does not like to be vulnerable.

He is flawed as a person, just like anyone else is, which an idea Harry still has to get used to. He feels a flare of embarrassment when he thinks back on how much he used to idolise him. Perhaps it was a bit unfair to Tom, being put on such a high pedestal and having all these expectations placed on him by Harry.

Either way, this is something he has to find out; in order to start truly understanding who Tom is he has to know _what_ he is first.

Making a mental note to come back for the book another time when Tom isn’t around, Harry continues his conversation with Ron, leaving the little purple book behind. It probably won’t provide him with all the answers he needs, but at least it’s a start considering how Hogwarts’ Library had absolutely nothing for him either.

Then, an idea occurs to him—books don’t have to be his _sole_ source for information on this matter.

Surely any knowledgeable or experienced wizard would know more?

Like Albus Dumbledore, perhaps?

* * *

As it happens, the rest of Sunday passes quite uneventfully. Harry spends most of it in the common room with his friends, mainly working on the assignments for Monday. Hermione is quite happy with his new attitude towards his school work while Ron proclaims him a traitor, far more interested in testing out Bertie Bott’s Beans and nearly retching when he takes a chance and eats an earwax-flavoured one.

Tom lingers, helping Harry with his Transfiguration and Ancient Runes homework—something he hasn’t done in a while. He’s a charming but brilliant teacher as always, dazzling even Hermione as he explains the concept behind breaking The Five Principle Exceptions to Gamp’s Law.

“Do keep this to yourselves,” Tom cautions. “I don’t think wizarding society is quite ready to fall apart yet.” 

“How would it fall apart?” Ron questions, puzzled. “Wouldn’t this make everything better? People being able to transfigure their own food, their own clothes, their own money—”

“Breaking Gamp’s Law means becoming completely independent. Society as a concept is rooted in the dependency we have on each other—without this need for dependency, society itself will collapse,” Tom elaborates patiently. “The world economy for one would either dissolve or transform completely, the best case scenario being that we’d go back to an era of bartering for the more valuable goods that can’t be transfigured, but the transition would be difficult, to say the least.

“The chaos that would follow this discovery would cause irreversible damage, particularly in Great Britain, with a Ministry so famously incompetent as the one you have now. Any authority based upon society would crumble as a result; there would be total anarchy, self-sufficiency or no.”

“Yet you don’t sound _entirely_ against it,” Hermione muses curiously, and Tom considers this for a moment before answering.

“I’d prefer a wizarding world that is fully magically liberated—that is my ideal, but I do not think the world is ready for it. I am well aware that, for the time being, a societal structure is necessary to keep order and peace. You cannot trust the masses to govern themselves.”

“I didn’t know you were so… um, cynical.”

Tom smiles politely. “I have good reasons to be.”

The late afternoon is spent with Tom teaching Harry and Ron the Summoning Charm. Ron picks up on it much quicker than Harry, being more familiar with the spell seeing as he grew up in a wizarding household; he just didn’t have a name for it before, but recognises the use of ‘ _Accio’._

All in all, Sunday is a productive day.

* * *

Monday morning brings a dull lesson of Herbology, and following that, a not so dull lesson of Care of Magical Creatures with Hagrid.

It’s the first time Harry sees Malfoy after their little spat. He predictably arrives at Hagrid’s cabin with a sneer on his face, the subject never having been his favourite, particularly because of his condescension towards its Professor. Crabbe and Goyle, however, are notably absent.

“Where did your two lackeys disappear to, Malfoy?” Ron can’t resist jeering at him, the rich heir narrowing his eyes sharply in a hateful glare.

“Unlike you I don’t feel the need to constantly hide behind my friends, Weasley,” Malfoy retorts derisively.

Ron’s face fixes into a deep scowl but before he can reply, Hagrid emerges from the back of his cabin balancing a teetering tower of crates, each containing a very large blast-ended skrewt. To the class's horror, Hagrid proceeds to explain that the reason the skrewts have been killing one another lately is an excess of pent-up energy, and that the solution would be for each student to fix a leash on a skrewt and take it for a short walk.

"Take this thing for a walk?" Malfoy repeats in disgust, peering into one of the boxes. "And where exactly are we supposed to fix the leash? Around the sting, the blasting end, or the sucker?"

"Roun' the middle," Hagrid answers, demonstrating. "Er—yeh might want ter put on yer dragon-hide gloves, jus' as an extra precaution.”

One by one students pick up a skrewt from the boxes with some care. Harry quickly drops his, the little creature making an odd hissing sound at him in ill-humour. It’s not quite like a snake’s—if anything it sounds more like a deflating balloon.

The skrewts by now have grown over three feet long, and rather hard to control. No longer shell-less and colourless, they have developed a kind of thick, grayish, shiny armour. They look like a cross between giant scorpions and elongated crabs—but still without recognisable heads or eyes.

He manages to get his leash around the middle of his skrewt by gently coaxing its legs over it, staying away from both its stinger and blasting end. Harry gets it done faster than most, being perhaps more comfortable and daring in handling magical creatures than his classmates.

Meanwhile Hermione is still trying to find a way to approach hers in a non-threatening manner, while Ron is agitating his skrewt with his rough handling of it, the creature nearly getting him with its stinger.

When he looks over at Malfoy, however, he finds the Slytherin merely glowering at the skrewt as if expecting it to roll over on its own.

“It’s not going to let you leash it just because you glared at it,” Harry says to him while tugging his own skrewt along by its leash. The skrewt seems to have other ideas, as it starts crawling the opposite direction, towards the cabin. “No, you— _this_ way, come on!” Harry heaves a sigh, struggling with keeping the skrewt in check.

Malfoy doesn’t quite glare at him for his comment, but he does seem a bit peeved, huffing irritably as he finally puts his gloves on, bending down with the leash in his hand to attempt snaring the skrewt in it.

The temperamental creature has something else in mind, however—as Malfoy bends down and yanks on the skrewt’s legs to get them over the leash, the skrewt’s long stinger arches up threateningly.

Harry can predict what will happen next, but can’t conceive a warning would help in time nor is he close enough to pull Malfoy back. He does the next best thing—one hand holding his skrewt’s leash, the other one draws his wand and in a single fluid movement, fires off a spell.

“ _Protego!”_

Courtesy of Tom’s teaching last year.

A shimmering barrier forms between Malfoy and the skrewt a mere second before its stinger lashes out but bangs harshly against the shield charm, making Malfoy yelp and fall back onto the ground. The skrewt skitters away quickly, catching Hagrid’s attention who’s in the midst of aiding another student.

“Oy, whose skrewt is this?” he thunders while hurrying after the creature. “Come back ‘ere, you little—”

Malfoy, staring blankly after the skrewt, blinks up at Harry. “What just happened?”

“You’re welcome,” Harry replies wryly, back to struggling with his stubborn skrewt. “It was about to sting you in the eye, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Clearly Malfoy _hadn’t_ noticed. He pushes himself up off the ground, wiping the dirt off his robes with a scowl. “Great, perfect, just what I needed. I suppose you’re quite happy with yourself? Saviour Potter, to the rescue yet _again_.”

Exasperated, Harry considers for a moment to snap back with an appropriate insult but reigns himself back in at the last second. He doesn’t want his good mood to be ruined by a spat that can be avoided.

“That’s not why I helped you,” he says evenly. “I don’t know what sort of megalomaniac you think I am—”

“Of course, you’re just being _noble_ , aren’t you?” Malfoy mocks, eliciting a deep sigh from Harry whose skrewt now stubbornly sits in place, deciding that if it can’t move in the direction it wants to, it won’t move at all.

“What’s your problem, Malfoy?” Harry asks wearily.

Malfoy huffs, arms folded stubbornly across his chest as he waits for Hagrid to fetch his skrewt. “Our presentation’s due in four days.”

Admittedly Harry had forgotten all about that. After the previous Ancient Runes lesson, he’d been more comfortable in not sparing any thought to the debacle, what with the whole thing with Tom going on. But, having finally started picking all his grades up to an above-average-level and sorted out his meagre love affairs, Harry supposes now is as good a time as any to address it.

“Look,” he starts. “I know you don’t like me, and that’s fine, we don’t have to be best friends to finish this project, but you’ve made it _really_ hard these past few years to get along at all—”

“Wait, hold on a second,” Malfoy interrupts him, brows furrowed in disbelief. “That was you trying to _get along_ with me?”

Harry tugs at his leash again, breathing out a small sigh of relief when his skrewt actually shuffles a few inches forward. “Sort of, yeah.”

“Acting all high-and-mighty about how _hard_ your life’s been, oh woe is me, me and my poor muggle family—”

“Malfoy, stop it! I’m not getting into another bloody argument with you over something this stupid.”

“ _Stupid_?”

“Yes, stupid!” Harry finally snaps. “I don’t know what crap you’ve been fed growing up that makes you think anything related to muggles is _inferior_ , but for some ridiculous reason I expected better from—”

“Oh please, spare me your whining about the poor muggles,” Malfoy sneers in reply, clearly unimpressed as he stares at his nails while Harry can feel the blood pooling in his cheeks out of sheer frustration.

He has absolutely had it with this idiotic idea that somehow muggles are arse-backwards and never do anything but fumble around in the dark, as if wizarding society has all the answers—meanwhile they’re never taught a lick of actual science even in Hogwarts.

Harry had to learn from Tom about things as basic as Darwin’s theory of evolution. It is one of the very, _very_ few areas (perhaps the only one) where Tom actually expresses distaste for wizards rather than muggles, disappointed with their complacency and laziness, never willing to push the boundaries further than what’s comfortable.

Malfoy seems to be a perfect example of that, which is funny considering Slytherins are supposed to be the more ambitious sort out of all Houses. Apparently that only applies selectively.

Taking a deep breath and knowing there’ll be no turning back if he starts this fight again, Harry finally states: “Those _poor muggles_ have accomplished more than you pure-bloods ever will.”

Malfoy looks up at that, a scandalised expression written all over his features. “What?”

“Muggles are the ones that are discovering new things about our own planet every day while wizards sit on their collective arses, content with their stupid magic tricks. What’s so great about a society that barely progresses? I’m writing on _parchment_ with a _quill_ in the _twentieth century_ —meanwhile muggles landed on the bloody moon for Merlin’s sake!” Harry practically yells, red in the face. “What did your pureblood ancestors ever do for humanity, huh?”

“Wait,” Malfoy says, blinking several times. “Muggles landed on the _moon_?”

All the anger drains out of Harry and he deflates like a balloon, trading it in for sheer astonishment instead. He barely notices his skrewt starting to scuttle towards another student’s skrewt, as if rearing up to start a fight.

“You-you don’t know about the moon landing?” he asks, absolutely baffled. “It happened in the sixties? Huge milestone for humanity?”

“You’re messing with me, Potter,” Malfoy decides after a brief silence, glaring at him.

“I’m actually not,” Harry says very seriously. “They went to the moon and back. The Americans put a flag up there and everything.”

“What? How?” Malfoy looks entirely bewildered. “ _Why_?”

Had he really been that sheltered growing up? No wonder he didn’t think muggles amounted to anything—he’d never even heard of one of the biggest achievements of mankind, or more accurately, one of the biggest achievements of muggles.

“With a rocket-ship,” Harry answers, feeling very strange about having to explain this to someone. It was such common knowledge in the muggle world that he never imagined having to tell it to someone as if it were completely unheard of. “Discovering new frontiers, and all.”

Malfoy gives him another suspicious look. “You’re lying. There’s no way muggles could do that.”

“Look it up in a book if you don’t believe me,” Harry says with a shrug, turning his attention back to his skrewt, which is trying to drag him quite literally into a fight. “Hey—no, play nice!”

He wanders off from Malfoy, pulling his angry skrewt along, having no idea about what he’s just started in the rich heir’s mind.

* * *

“Ron?”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve heard of the moon landing, right?”

Harry and Ron go down the stairs towards the dungeon for what’s sure to be a _wonderful_ two hours of Double Potions that afternoon, incidentally their last class of the day.

“What?” A moment of silence, horrified on Harry’s part, and briefly confused on Ron’s part until he seems to remember. “Oh! Yeah, of course. When did that happen again? Nineteen-sixty-something, right?”

Harry lets out a breath of relief as they walk down the corridor, the classroom at the end of the gloomy dungeon hallway still mostly empty—save for Snape, who’s standing there completely still, like some sort of gargoyle keeping watch.

Hermione and Tom trail after them, the latter quietly advising some improvements to her Deflating Draught—an antidote that reverses swelling caused by anything magical in nature. Snape had given them hints that they’d be brewing antidotes today, and Hermione had been working ahead, naturally.

Spotting an opportunity while trying to ignore Snape’s incessant glaring, Ron and Harry quickly take a table at the back of the class, which is usually taken by the Slytherins. Hermione takes the seat in front of them, Tom meanwhile wandering around at the front of the class, giving Snape a cursory glance before he’s distracted by the many ingredients lined on the shelves behind the Potions Professor.

He picks up a dark, rough stone from a basket sitting next to a jar of what appears to be eyes floating in a yellow substance—a bezoar, Harry recognises distantly. Hard to forget when you’re humiliated with not knowing what it is during your first Potions class in your first year, courtesy of Snape.

“D’you reckon we can convince Tom to drop a jar on top of Snape’s head?” Ron whispers conspiratorially as Harry unpacks, trying to suppress his grin under Snape’s scrutiny.

“I doubt it.”

More students fill in the seats and when most are present, Snape finally begins the lesson. " _Quiet_. I assume you've all done your homework for today, because this lesson you'll only have and hour and thirty minutes exactly to brew the antidote of your choosing for a grade. In other words, if you did not come prepared, expect a failing grade." 

Harry, Ron and Hermione quickly find it more and more difficult to pay attention than usual considering the faces Tom is making behind Snape with every sneer the man makes. His many expressions range from exasperated to impatient to downright annoyed, particularly whenever Snape deigns to completely ignore Hermione who, like every lesson, tries her best to give the correct answers but is either overlooked or responded to with some sort of snide comment.

“Told you he was a git,” Harry mutters to Tom when he comes wandering their way.

“Substantively, he's doing little wrong,” Tom replies, eyes still on Snape who’s now listing some ingredients most commonly used in many potions. “But his teaching methods certainly leave something to be desired.”

Ron opens his mouth to respond, when Snape’s gaze flits to them—and stays there.

“Potter,” he snaps, and Harry pats Ron on the back in a placating gesture before his friend can heatedly protest that no one had actually _talked_ yet when Snape had looked. “Care to list one?”

Harry stares blankly.

“An ingredient in an antidote,” Tom remarks helpfully. “He was listing them a second ago.”

When Harry gives Tom a beseeching look, Tom raises his eyebrows.

“Are you asking me to help you cheat, Harry?”

Harry wishes he could actually reply, but he’s pretty sure that from the scowl on his face Tom gets the message, if his amused look is anything to go by. He slowly shakes his head, and instead gives Harry an expectant look.

“We’re waiting, Potter,” Snape jeers with a smug grin.

It seems he’ll have to solve this one himself.  

 _Come on, something for antidotes… antidotes…_ Harry thinks hard, knowing he’s about to cost his House twenty-something points if he gets this wrong. _Anti… oh, of course!_

“A bezoar,” he says quickly, remembering the stone Tom had picked up earlier. “It’s an antidote against most poisons and a common ingredient in a lot of potions. I think it’s a stone you take out of the stomach of a goat.”

Snape narrows his eyes. “Name one.”

Harry’s temporary victory, and subsequently his winning smirk, both fall flat. “What?”

“Name a potion brewed with a bezoar, and describe its application—unless your name is Harry Potter, Miss Granger, I expect you to put your hand down.  _Now_.”

Seems like Hermione won't save him from this one either, and Harry is starting to sweat. He always hates costing his House points.

A sigh from his left, and then a whisper. “Would you like me to help?”

Harry nods imperceptibly. Tom comes to stand in front of his desk, frowning slightly as he gives Harry a thoughtful look, before he reaches out and puts the tips of his fingers at Harry’s neck.

A strange tingle spreads up into his mouth and suddenly his lips are moving of their own, speaking at the same exact time as Tom.

“The bezoar is mostly known for being used in the Antidote for Common Poisons. The preparation involves crushing it into a very fine powder and adding it to your cauldron as your first ingredient,” A self-satisfied pause at Snape’s stunned expression from Harry, while Tom continues accordingly. “If you’re not satisfied with that, Professor, another ingredient that forms a staple in many antidotes is the Mandragora—most famous, perhaps, for its use in the Mandrake Restorative Draught which cures petrification. Incidentally, the leaves of a Mandrake are also used for the Dreamless Sleep Potion, the Draught of Peace and Sleeping Draught. Was that a sufficient answer, Professor?”

A complete ring of silence lasts for about four seconds when the Gryffindors forget themselves and erupt in hollering and shouting and even applause, the entire classroom erupting into chaos. Beside Harry, Ron seems to be hacking up a lung with how hard he’s laughing, pointing to Snape’s shell-shocked expression, even Hermione appearing pleased regardless of the duplicity involved.

It’s at that opportune moment that the bell sounds to end the lesson and Harry—still reeling from the absolute humiliation he, or rather, _Tom_ brought down on Snape—is the first to leave the class before the Professor can regain his sense and land him detention for the rest of the year.

Hermione and Ron follow him out, Tom having momentarily disappeared back into his diary before he materialises again outside in the corridor where it’s less crowded.

“What was _that_?” Ron asks excitedly.

“Some sort of spell?” Hermione infers, looking curiously between Tom and Harry.

“No, nothing so concrete,” Tom answers when Harry is silent, staring at him and waiting for answers just like his other two friends. “Harry and I have a bond through my diary, magical in nature. I never thought to try it before, but it seems this bond goes beyond Harry being able to see me. Apparently I can affect him _physically_ as well.”

“What kind of bond? I know Harry found your diary, but that’s quite different from an actual magical connection,” Hermione says, looking a bit bewildered now as they all go up the stairs.

“My diary itself _is_ a magical object in its nature,” Tom points out airily, letting Hermione draw her own conclusion rather than answering her directly, which Harry thinks a bit odd. There isn’t any reason to hide the bond between the two of them, is there?

Before he can spare any further thought on the subject, however, his attention is pulled away by another.

“Harry!” In the hallway in front of the Great Hall, which is slowly filling with students hungry for lunch, Harry finds Cedric standing near the stairs by himself for a rare moment, seeming to have escaped his mass of admirers. 

Walking up to him and feeling strangely shy at seeing two bright and eager eyes fixated on him, Harry shoots him a timid but happy smile back. Hermione (who's giggling delightedly) and Ron (whose eyebrows are up to his hairline) stay mostly behind him while Tom lingers next to him, expression inscrutable.

“Hi Cedric,” he greets the tall Hufflepuff, who also gives a word of hello to Harry’s two visible friends. “Where’d your horde of fans go?”

Cedric flushes slightly. “I, er, made a break for it. It got really old after the first twelve high-fives—I’m pretty sure I bruised my hand.”

Harry laughs, maybe a little louder and brighter than he usually does but it slips out of his mouth like smoke and it’s such a strange feeling, not being able to control your own laughter. Cedric looks quietly pleased by his humour, if the huge grin on his face is any indication.

“Ah, Harry,” Hermione says then, with a gleam in her eyes Harry isn’t sure what to think of. “We’re gonna go on ahead, alright?”

Ron blinks. “We are?”

“ _Yes_ , Ronald, we _are_ ,” Hermione says, shooting him an exasperated look while hooking her elbow through his, missing the slightly flushed expression on Ron’s face as she drags him away.

Tom watches them go, then looks at Harry, glancing meaningfully to Cedric. “Do try not to ruin this for yourself,” he says with a bit of wry humour, before disappearing completely.

Alone now, Harry looks at Cedric, and Cedric looks at Harry.

“Um,” Harry says eloquently, and Cedric laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, so,” He clears his throat, continuing in a low tone. “Want to take this somewhere more private?”

Harry nearly chokes on his own spit at the insinuation, voice cracking as he replies. “Wh- _what_?”

“Not—not like _that_!” Cedric looks somewhat mortified as he hastily tries to correct the misunderstanding, ears flaming red, the blush creeping up his neck and creating blotches on his cheeks. “I didn’t mean that we… you know! I meant just to talk, honest!”

Feeling mostly relieved though also somewhat disappointed, Harry chuckles with a bit of embarrassment. “Uh, right, sure.”

Cedric breathes out a sigh, then gestures down the hallway to the right, leading towards the greenhouse where Harry has Herbology every Monday morning.

“Sorry about that, I just don’t feel like running into my fan club again,” Cedric says as they walk with some distance between them that feels uncomfortably wide and too self-aware for two guys who are just supposed to be walking. At least they're fortunate that the corridor seems to be clear of other students.

“It’s fine, trust me, I get it,” Harry replies easily, mostly staring at his shoes. There’s a brief silence. “Are you nervous? About the Tournament, I mean?”

Cedric shrugs. “Not as nervous as I thought I’d be. I think I’ll do well,” he says, then seems to reconsider. “Does that sound too arrogant?”

“I don’t think someone who's arrogant would have even asked that question, so I think you’re fine,” Harry looks through the glassless windows as he talks, finding it easier than looking at Cedric. That has a way of upsetting his stomach—in the fluttery, nervous kind of way. “It’s okay to brag and be confident, you know.”

“I’d rather not,” Cedric responds soberly. “My father does enough of that on my behalf.”

“I bet he was happy hearing about you being chosen, wasn’t he?”  

Cedric lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Over- _joyed_. He’s already offering ideas on what to do with the prize money if I win.”

Briefly, Harry wonders how it might’ve been if he’d been chosen champion, how James Potter might’ve reacted—from what Sirius and Remus have told him about his father, he would’ve probably been similar to Cedric’s dad. A bit overly supportive and definitely zealous, though not solely because he’d get bragging rights if Harry won, but mainly because he’d really want his son to succeed, for his own benefit, his own future.

His mother would’ve been far more tempered and reasonable about it, careful to avoid putting pressure on her son, stressing that she’d be proud of him no matter what happened because that's the kind of considerate person Lily Potter was.

“Harry?” Cedric asks, noticing he’s gone awfully quiet, and Harry quickly snaps out of his thoughts.

“Sorry,” he apologises hastily. “I was just… thinking.”

They come to a stop near the stairs going up to the west wing of the second floor, standing near the open windows in a stream of sunlight falling at just the right angle, pleasantly warm. It gives Cedric a strange golden glow over his hair, the light falling into his bright gray eyes almost making them shine.

Cedric gives him a contemplative look, before he seems to understand. “About your parents?”

“Yeah,” Harry mutters, trying to shake the thought off. “It’s not important, just something I wondered.”

“It’s fine, I shouldn’t complain about my dad so much,” Cedric says, leaning back against the stone ledge, rocky and uneven in texture. He trails his hand over it—his hands are big and his fingers are long, but also strong, not thin and spindly like Tom's. “He means well, but sometimes I guess he gets a little _too_ involved in my life.”

“How so?”

He looks hesitant to say anything, and Harry is ready to let the subject drop when Cedric starts talking anyway. “You’ve seen me with Cho, right? The Seeker from Ravenclaw?”

“Uh, yeah,” Harry replies slowly, remembering the scene he saw that morning with Cho kissing Cedric on the cheek, and starting to feel his heart sink into his stomach.

“We’re not—I mean, we kind of are, but it wasn’t entirely my choice,” Cedric says quickly, clearly picking up on Harry’s glum mood. “My dad knows her parents, you see, so he introduced me to her, and she sort of ran with it and… well, I got swept away by it. Just another one of those expectations.”

“But you’re not in love with her?” Harry inquires, trying to be nonchalant about it but feeling hope bloom in his chest all the same.

“No,” Cedric laughs, as if Harry has said something particularly funny. “No, to tell you the truth, I, um, I’ve got someone else in mind.”

“Oh,” Harry says with a disheartened slump of his shoulders, and Cedric frowns slightly.

“Harry,” he says patiently even as a blush is building up in his cheeks. “I’m talking about _you_.”

It takes a long moment for the words to register and by that time Cedric’s entire face is flaming red even while he admirably keeps an otherwise calm expression. Harry has trouble understanding it, thinks for a moment he must've hallucinated, or dreamt it, but seconds pass and he's still not waking up.

“ _Oh_!” Harry exclaims when his brain finally stops malfunctioning, and with a start suddenly realises how close Cedric is standing. "What-what about Cho?" 

"I'll break up with her," Cedric murmurs. "If you want to, that is. But if you—"

"Yes," Harry blurts out. "I—just—yes." 

Cedric gives him a dazzling smile and his heart starts beating a mile a minute, and he feels absolutely dazed—he’s never, _ever_ had anyone say that before, that they’re actually in love with him. It’s such a strange mix of shock and elation that he’s not sure what to do about it, the feelings contained in his chest ready to burst.

"Yes?" Cedric repeats playfully, moving just a little bit closer.

Harry nods emphatically. " _Yes_." 

“Okay,” Cedric says then, and there's a bizarre moment of stillness between the two of them, realising that it's all in the open now and from this point on, they can do whatever they want, whatever they've  _thought_ about doing but didn't dare to earlier.

“Since when?” Harry asks dumbly, because he's not quite sure how to make the next step when Cedric is taller than him and he is  _not_ going to stand on his tip-toes to do it.

“That time in the Owlery,” Cedric answers with a light cheer, and Harry is standing so close he can pick up a scent of cinnamon, some sort of perfume or cologne—maybe shampoo. “I uh, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you ever since.”

“I… um, sorry, I just….” Harry can hardly concentrate as his gaze flits down instinctively to Cedric’s lips. “Can I kiss you?” he blurts out.

Cedric looks very startled for a moment before he starts laughing again, shaking his head. His laughter dies off as he leans forward and a bit down towards Harry, whose eyes are wide as he stands nailed to the ground, heartbeat pounding through his head like a drumbeat.

“You don’t have to ask, Harry,” Cedric murmurs, breath hot as it mingles with Harry’s shaky exhale, and he tilts his head just so—

There’s a loud snap, and a flash of a camera.

Both boys jump and split apart instantly, turning towards the stairs where a blond woman with the most magenta robes Harry has ever seen is standing around with a camera floating behind her.

“My, my, _my_ ,” the unfamiliar witch says, smiling sweetly, descending the steps with one click of her heel at a time. The floating camera trails behind her as she reaches into her purse and pulls out a long, green feather and a small notebook. She releases both mid-air and instantly the floating feather starts scribbling on the pages while the camera behind her takes another picture. “The Hogwarts Champion, having a secret love-affair tucked away in a dark corner with no one other than _The Boy Who Lived_.”

“I’m sorry—who are you?” Cedric asks calmly and with nothing more than a frown while Harry experiences something of a small stroke, face completely red with one hand clinging to Cedric's robes.

The woman comes to a stop in front of them, and extends him a small, bright pink business card, the sweet smile unmoved from her lips.

“Rita Skeeter,” she says. “Daily Prophet.”

_Oh, bollocks._


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Last edited:** 03/12/17   
> _Dialogue changes for Cedric and Harry_

" _I don’t know who you are anymore, Tom.”_

He thinks about it incessantly, unable to rid himself of the words that have carved themselves into his thoughts like a scar ever since his last private conversation with Harry. He masks it so well; even when outwardly occupied with other things—teaching the eager trio of friends, offering his advice, his company, a listening ear—Tom cannot stop repeating that one small sentence inside his echo-chamber.

 _‘It seems that our young Harry is much more perceptive than you thought,’_ the old man says when he finds Tom contemplating it again inside the diary, taking a small rest after having been out and about for an entire day.

Usually Tom would not deign to respond to his illusory former teacher, but he is frayed at the edges and snaps, voice echoing through the pages of the small diary as if he’d spoken them aloud.

“It doesn’t matter.”

The space inside the diary itself feels colder than usual. Ordinarily it is not a thing you could describe as an actual _place_ to start with—it’s more of a feeling, like being lost inside your own mind, a part of yourself. Usually it is a steady flow of thoughts, somewhere comfortable, but now it almost feels hostile, darkened and much smaller. An enclosed space where invisible walls are pressing inwards, squeezing with every heartbeat.

 _‘On the contrary, I think it matters a great deal,’_ faux-Dumbledore replies amused from that little corner in Tom’s mind where he’s been festering like a disease, slowly growing louder and louder. _‘You’ve been sulking about it for almost a week now, my boy.’_

“Sulking,” Tom scoffs. “I do not sulk.”

Faux-Dumbledore ignores this, and his voice is quiet when he asks, _‘Do you have an answer for him?’_

Tom’s thoughts explode in an angry stream of consciousness held back for too long.

Of course I do, I know who I am, I’ve always known, I’m Tom Marvolo Riddle; the heir of Salazar Slytherin; the Dark Lord Voldemort who will usher in a new age for the wizarding world; the first to have grasped at immortality and succeeded—

 _‘The child of a muggle and a pureblood witch, the orphan abandoned by his mother at childbirth, the torn and tattered part of a scarred whole,’_ faux-Dumbledore interrupts, Tom’s declarations screeching to a sudden and uncomfortable halt. _‘You are more than the events of your life, Tom. Sum it up if you will, but that does not answer the question. You are no longer the same person your original wanted you to be, so let me ask you this directly: who is Tom Riddle?’_

“I just told you,” Tom says quietly, feeling something quake in the depths of his being, some foundation of supposed truth that is starting to crumble into uncertainty. “That is who I am.”

What else does he have, if not that? If not his heritage, if not his accomplishments, if not who he is _supposed_ to become, then what is left for him to claim?

 _‘No—that is what you_ were _,’_ faux-Dumbledore explains with an almost cruel kindness. ‘ _It is not who you have become, nor who you are now.’_

Tom’s voice shakes; he feels utterly nauseated.

“Then who am I? According to you, who am I?”

 _‘Well, my boy,’_ his former teacher says with the patience of a parent to their child. _‘That is entirely up to you to decide—you are free to choose whatever you want.’_

You are free to choose.

You are _free_.

Tom listens to the silence in his head, and thinks that never before has freedom been such a disturbing prospect; an unfathomable vastness of possibilities so overwhelming that he almost wishes someone would _tell him_ who he is and decide for him. He was always so secure in his place in the world, as Slytherin’s heir, as someone who would save the magical world from itself, but now?

His ideals have changed, not in what he wants to accomplish, but in how he wants to accomplish it. He still wants to be free of the chains that the existence of muggles has placed upon wizards and witches everywhere, but war cannot have been the right way—the utter failure of his original is a testament to that. Political persuasion, gradual change, _patience_ is needed. His ultimate goal is still the same, no matter how much his original has perverted it.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Tom says at the continued silence in his head. “Who do _you_ think I am?”

He can almost see faux-Dumbledore smiling enigmatically when the entity responds: _‘I think that you are a young man who could do many great things, if you were so inclined.’_

Tom sighs and the diary’s pages ripple. “Enough games. How long do you intend to linger? When I absorbed you, you ought to have disappeared, just like…”

The monster, with its gleaming eyes.

Harry’s Horcrux came with an unexpected visitor, but faux-Dumbledore is part of the Horcrux all the same—for all intents and purposes, it _should_ have disappeared, and yet somehow it managed to develop a mind of its own, deciding to play judgement in Tom’s head. Tom has wondered and wondered, but he can’t find an answer as to why it’s still here.

 _‘Perhaps you do not want me to disappear?’_ the Horcrux-remnant offers, its voice far less like Dumbledore now and more like a toneless echo, still kind but much quieter.

Tom considers this with scepticism. Why in the world wouldn’t he want this nuisance to disappear? All it has caused him so far is a headache.

 _‘Perhaps,’_ the remnant continues, _‘you may have need of me yet.’_

Tom understands at once what the remnant means.

When he goes to speak to Lord Voldemort (because now it is simply a matter of when, a matter of how many weeks, of how many _days_ ), the self-aware bit of Horcrux may be his only protection and defence against the wizard’s unsurpassed skill in Legilimency.

After all, Tom can’t imagine his original would be pleased to discover his plot of correcting The Dark Lord. Even if Tom has changed at the edges, he is still the same creature at the core—and Lord Voldemort, he knows, will not appreciate some small piece of his scattered soul dictating what the main body _ought_ to be doing.

Best he keeps his scheming a secret.

* * *

And to think, just when things were going well.

“Ugh,” Harry groans for what feels like the hundredth time that Saturday, tucked into the corner of the common room at one of the small tables, head resting on its smooth mahogany wood. “ _Ugh_.”

Hermione puts a hand on his back, rubbing over the tense muscles in a gesture of tentative comfort. “It’s not so bad,” she tries weakly.

“Not so bad?” Ron repeats with incredulity, sitting across from them with Tom next to him who’s currently peering at newspaper spread open in front of them. “Hermione, have you actually _read_ the article?”

As if on cue, Tom starts leading part of it out loud.

“ _The two lovebirds—caught in the heat of the moment by yours truly—will have to fight many a hardship now that their sweltering love affair—”_

“Sweltering!”  

“— _has been exposed to the masses. Indeed, their story reads much like a fairy tale. Our dashingly handsome Cedric Diggory finally caught the glimmering green eyes of one infamous Harry Potter, after gallantly conceding victory to him in a torrid Quidditch match but a year ago—”_

“That’s not how it happened!” Harry fumes, outraged more than anything by the implication that Cedric _let_ him win. Painting their brief moment in a corridor as some sort of epic love story fit to be told generations hence is one thing; insulting Harry’s Quidditch skills is another. “And my eyes don’t _glimmer_!”

“I bet Cedric would beg to differ.”

Harry chucks a Bertie Bott bean at Ron, hitting him on the nose. “You’re supposed to be on my side, traitor.”

Tom—who to Harry’s anxiety hasn’t spoken a word about what he thinks on the matter—continues skimming the article in silence. “Hm.”

“What?”

“Her prose is rather extravagant,” he remarks casually. “Is this a common style nowadays?”

“Only if you’re a second-rate tabloid journalist with no class,” Hermione huffs, surprisingly vicious. When Ron and Harry give her equally incredulous looks, she scowls, and proceeds to explode in righteous anger. “I can’t stand this kind of reporting, if you can even call it that! It’s complete drivel—what about the Azkaban scandal? Why doesn’t the Daily Prophet think it important enough to dedicate more than a small paragraph to that?”

At the mention of Azkaban, Harry perks up. “Sorry, what scandal?”

Hermione turns to him, impassioned explanation at the ready. “You mean you haven’t _heard_? Harry, that speech you made at Pettigrew’s trial had a pretty big impact. Some people in the Ministry finally decided to actually evaluate the conditions of the prisoners—the findings were published a few days ago, and everyone in the press is talking about it! Well,” she scoffs, “everyone except for _Rita Skeeter_ and The Daily Prophet, of course.”

Rita Skeeter published her piece about the Triwizard Tournament almost three days ago, and it turned out to be not so much a report on the tournament as a highly coloured love story of Harry and Cedric. She was supposed to have been interviewing all three Champions, but her whole article is decidedly focused on romance.

Much of the front page has been given over to a picture of Harry and Cedric on the brink of kissing before parting in embarrassment at noticing the camera; the article itself (continuing on pages two, six, and seven) is all about the two of them, the names of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang Champions (misspelled) squashed into the last line of the article.

The article appeared yesterday, and Harry has been getting a sick, burning feeling of shame in his stomach every time he thinks about it, Malfoy’s words ringing in his ears.

 _“People idolised you when you were a baby, and for doing_ what _? You don’t deserve any of your fame!”_

This article should’ve been about the three Triwizard Tournament Champions, not about Harry—he isn’t even competing, and yet managed to take the focus completely off of them by his sheer existence, just by being The Boy Who Lived. That’s his greatest accomplishment; not dying when he was supposed to, in some sort of freak accident of a spell not working properly.

 _Malfoy was right_ , Harry thinks begrudgingly. 

With mild trepidation he wonders if Cedric is upset with him over it, even though he knows that Cedric probably won’t lay any blame at his feet. Logically, he has no reason to, but that bud of anxiety still blooms in his chest, digging his roots into the pit of his stomach.

It’s a bad habit of his, assuming that someone somehow is going to find a way to make him look guilty after having spent years of having the finger pointed at him by his cousin. Of course he knows Cedric is a much, _much_ better person (and that’s an understatement) than the Dursleys ever were, but there’s always going to be that bit of doubt in the back of his head.

Harry hasn’t had a chance to speak with him yet. After the rude interruption of Skeeter, who proceeded to grill them thoroughly about their relationship, Cedric courteously walked Harry back to the Great Hall after giving Skeeter a thorough piece of his mind.

 _“As far as I know_ ,” he said heatedly when Skeeter asked yet another question about Harry’s tragic childhood, _“neither of us agreed to an interview with a complete hack of a reporter. I’d be careful what you put in that article, unless you want to be dragged into court. My father, as I’m sure you’re well aware, has many ties within the Ministry.”_

Turns out Cedric was bluffing, awkwardly informing Harry on their walk back (sans Skeeter, of course) that he actually had no idea if his father was well-connected. Apparently he just pulled a page out of Malfoy’s book, and it worked; evidently, it wasn’t a risk Skeeter was willing to take. She kept the melodrama about Harry’s background to a polite minimum, while otherwise embellishing everything else.

“The way she wrote this you’d think you were snogging Cedric in every dark corner of the school,” Ron hums as he skims through the front page, flipping over to page two as Tom seems to have lost interest in it, instead thumbing the cover of Hermione’s Arithmancy book.

“Can we _stop_ talking about this?” Harry bemoans, instead turning to Hermione to talk about something much more interesting than a fake gossip print. “What was in that report about Azkaban? Is the Ministry actually going to do something about it?”

On cue, Hermione pulls out a thick, string-bound collection of papers out of nowhere, dated exactly three days ago, and plops it down on the desk in front of the four of them with a thick _thud_.

“Where’d you get that?” Ron gives her an incredulous look before turning to Harry. “Where’d she get that? It’s like she’s constantly prepared to lecture us! Does she do that on purpose?”

“I pulled it out of my bag, Ron,” Hermione replies, in equal measures of amusement and irritation as she gestures to the shoulder bag hanging off the armrest of her chair. “As I was saying, this is a copy of the report on the prisoners’ conditions in Azkaban. I borrowed it from the Library, though it’s strange how quickly they managed to get a copy of it; I found it on the same day the article came out.”

Harry has a sneaking suspicion a certain bespectacled Headmaster might have something to do with that. “What’s it say?”

“Well,” Hermione looks mildly uncomfortable now as she flips open the thick coverless book of documents, which has to span no less than a hundred pages. “I didn’t manage to read _all_ of it yet, but from what I’ve already read it’s incredibly damning. All of the prisoners suffer from some sort of mental instability that varies in severity depending on how long they’ve been there. The ones who’ve been locked up the longest are, um…”

She takes a deep, shaky breath, and Harry has never seen her look so stricken before. With a heavy pause, she continues.

“The report describes them in some instances as… as _barely human_. The worst cases have completely forgotten who they are, they barely function, they’re completely emaciated because they can’t even bring themselves to eat anymore, and no one cares enough to… they’ve been completely forgotten by everyone. It’s just horrible, Harry. No matter what they did, no one deserves _this_.”

“Makes you wonder,” Ron muses quietly, “how Sirius managed to get out alright.”

“He didn’t,” Harry says, remembering Pettigrew’s trial, remembering the insane gleam in his godfather’s eyes. “Hermione, could I borrow that?”

“Are you sure?” she asks with some concern, and Harry nods without a second thought. They have a responsibility, he thinks, to face even the most hideous parts of their society. How else is anything ever supposed to improve?

“It seems like speaking up at the trial like you did carried some unforeseen consequences,” Tom remarks then, giving Harry a knowing look. “Though I suppose your heartfelt speech must have been the stir the anti-Azkaban crowd were waiting for.”

“What do you mean?”

“Albus Dumbledore is more calculating than you give him credit for,” Tom replies. “You might not believe it, but your words carry much weight among the people, and he knows it. I suspect he used your stance to garner more political support for his camp.

“While many a traditionalist saw it fit to mock you on your supposed naivety, not everyone was so willing to go against the saviour of the wizarding world. Disparaging The Boy Who Lived is all but declaring your support for the Dark Lord, something Dumbledore is almost certain to have hung over everyone’s heads.”

Harry, much like Ron and even Hermione, is a bit flabbergasted at such a possibility. Maybe it’s the harmless and slightly ridiculous air that hangs around the cheerful old wizard, but the image that Tom describes—of a seemingly masterful tactician—never occurred to them before. Dumbledore has always just been their silly, kind Headmaster.

“Either way, that’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Harry decides. “Maybe now they’ll actually do something about it!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

At three pairs of raised eyebrows, Tom sighs and explains:

“Why do you suppose The Daily Prophet is plastered front to back with Harry and Diggory’s private lives? Do you really think it’s a coincidence that a day after this report comes out, Britain’s most influential paper decides to give its headlines away to a silly teenage love scandal? Clearly someone in the Ministry is pulling at the string of the Prophet.”

“They did this on purpose?” Hermione exclaims, appalled. “But-but there are hundreds of people in Azkaban right now, suffering the cruellest, the most inhumane—”

“Such is the way of politics,” Tom says, giving a humourless smile, and the hushed discussion ends on that sour note.

Harry takes the jaded conversation with him, the Azkaban report stuffed into his bag as he heads off with Ron and Hermione to Transfiguration while Tom disappears into his diary.

He’s known ever since meeting Sirius that there’s been something seriously wrong with the way they go about some things in the wizarding world, but it has never seemed as urgent as it does now, faced with the actual consequences of human suffering. It’s as if along with lagging behind in technology, the wizards have yet to update their standard of ethics as well.

 _Maybe that’s why Hogwarts looks like a death trap,_ Harry thinks wryly as he half-heartedly listens to Professor McGonagall drone on about their O.W.Ls for what feels like the forty-seventh time that semester.

“I do hope you all understand,” the Professor says sharply, “that O.W.Ls are the first step in deciding what you want to do after you’ve graduated Hogwarts. I do not expect you to have mapped out your entire lives at fourteen, but I _do_ expect you to take this seriously.”

Harry, sitting next to Hermione who is double-checking the homework assignment she’s about to hand in, lets his drift gaze over the classroom while he contemplates. Most of the Gryffindors don’t seem to be very worried, though many seem appropriately cowed by the Professor’s scolding, considering she _is_ their Head of House.

What does he want to do once he’s graduated from Hogwarts, anyway?

Perhaps it’s a little early to be thinking about it, but there’s just a little over three years left now and it’s time he put some serious thought into it. He doesn’t want to show up in his seventh year with still no idea what he wants to do with his life.

He has goals, certainly. He wants to close Azkaban, wants to get rid of all the discrimination against muggleborns and halfbloods and werewolves and, now he thinks about it, centaurs that have been driven to the Forbidden Forest and goblins that for some reason only seem to have found employment in a bank, and maybe even revolutionise Hogwarts while he’s at it to make it more muggleborn-inclusive, and how come Great Britain is so isolated, anyway? Until the Triwizard Tournament he’d never even heard of other wizarding countries before! All they have seems to be some potentially lethal magical competition for a stupid cup and some Galleons. Meanwhile the muggles have the European Union, the United Nations, NATO—

“Mr. Potter!”

A palm slaps down on his desk and Harry nearly jumps out of his seat, Professor McGonagall giving him an irritated look.

“Do pay attention when I’m giving a lecture, Potter—you are not exempt merely because you hiked up your grades this year,” she cautions sternly, Harry hearing snickering behind him (Seamus, no doubt) before the Professor continues to address the rest of the class.

Harry sighs, feeling frustrated. He was getting a bit carried away there, but at least he has things he strives for—the problem is, what kind of career does he need to accomplish that whole list of things? Politics? Harry grimaces at the thought alone.

As McGonagall begins the lesson with an introduction into Switching Spells, Harry’s thoughts starting drifting off more and more towards his future.

His first inclination is to ask Tom for his opinion, but he immediately decides against it; he’s been relying far too much on what Tom thinks ever since they met. He can’t expect Tom to have all the answers to his questions, particularly when it’s about what _he_ ought to be doing with his life.

It is then a strange thought occurs to Harry—is Tom going to be bound to the diary forever? Like the Hogwarts ghosts are bound to the castle? He won’t be ageing either, will he? It seems like such a dismal thought; when Harry is in his seventh year, he’ll have reached Tom’s age. When Harry turns thirty and has a career and is building his life, Tom could be exactly the same. When Harry is old and wrinkled and on his death bed, Tom might still have remained utterly unchanged.

There’s something terribly sad about that.

His eyes slide over to the windows of the classroom, peering at Hogsmeade in the distance. There was that book he found in _Tomes and Scrolls_ the other day, wasn’t there? _The Enigma of The Soul_ , if he remembers correctly.

Tom is inside the diary. Harry could hand it off to Ron or Hermione, give some sort of excuse—that he’s going to see Cedric, or something—and sneak off to Hogsmeade instead. With his Cloak of Invisibility, it shouldn’t be a problem.

It bothers him that he’s lying to his friends, but he resolves to tell them everything once he’s figured it all out. Tom won’t give him a straight answer, so he’ll find his own.

Besides, what could he possibly have to hide?

* * *

“Harry?” Hermione asks when he drags her aside into a small corridor by her elbow. They’d been just on their way to the Great Hall for lunch when Harry suddenly—and with a very nervous expression—pulled her aside. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing-nothing’s wrong,” he says quickly, glancing around anxiously before pulling out a familiar little book from his bag, shoving it into her hands. “Can you take care of this for me?”

“I—what?” Flustered, Hermione looks down at the diary, reading the golden letters engraved on its cover.

**TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE.**

“I, uh, I’m going to see Cedric, and…” Harry’s cheeks start spotting red, and Hermione has to try very hard not to openly coo at him. “Um, you know. Spend time, or something.”

“I understand,” she says with a great big smile, tucking the diary inside her bag, squished in-between her Transfigurations book and her Arithmancy homework. When Harry doesn’t move fast enough, she sighs and shoos him with a gentle push. “Go on, then! What are you waiting for?”

Harry frowns at her in embarrassment. “Yeah, well, you don’t have to be so smug about it.”

“I’m not smug, Harry; I’m happy for you!”

“You don’t _look_ happy,” Harry replies suspiciously. “You look more like you desperately want to scream it off the top of the Astronomy Tower.”

“Oh, just _go_ already!” she shushes, pushing him further away. He ducks his head and quickly stalks off, a lingering tinge of red on his cheeks. “Don’t stay out too late!”

Harry disappears in the crowd of students without reply, and Hermione quickly turns to catch up to Ron who’s lingering near the doors of the Great Hall, appearing a bit confused.

“Where’s Harry?” he asks when he sees her approach.

“On a date,” she informs him cheerfully, and Ron decides not to comment, following her to the Gryffindor table.

Lunch passes well enough without Harry; Hermione chides Ron for once again not doing his Transfiguration homework, and has to bargain with him to ensure he does do his Potions assignment. Unfortunately, it still leaves her exasperated enough to head off to the Library on her own for a change, leaving Ron who decides to spend his time with Dean and Neville (civilly ignoring Seamus’ very existence in the process).

Then again, there’s very few times where interacting with Ron _doesn’t_ leave her exasperated. Of course he’s her friend (and on a few occasions, she sometimes fancies that there _might_ be something more) but he’s also stubborn and lazy when it comes to schoolwork, which is equal to sacrilege in Hermione’s book.

Speaking of books—Hermione glances down at her bag, and though the weight of the diary inside it is negligible, it still feels strange to be the one walking around with it. She’s left in a state where she’s constantly expecting Tom to pop up out of nowhere, as he so likes to do.

Taking a seat in the Library, Hermione leaves her bag on the chair and heads off to scour the shelves for some interesting reading material as well as additional books on the history of House Elves.

Still, the name on the cover of the diary nags at her. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Where has she seen that name before?

Perhaps if she were to look at the student register, she could figure out the exact period of when Tom—

“ _Granger_ ,” a familiar (and entirely unwelcome) voice sneers from behind her, interrupting her musings. “You’re in my way.”

Hermione turns around and finds Malfoy, of all people, standing between the bookshelves and glaring at her, hands stuffed in the pockets of his pants. It seems he’s decided not to wear his robes today.

“You can walk _around_ me, Malfoy,” Hermione snaps irritably. “I’m not the Red Sea.”

“The Red what?”

Typical—religion isn’t exactly a big thing in the wizarding world, though some cultural traditions (such as Christmas, never mind that it was a pagan holiday first) have lingered. Of course Malfoy wouldn’t know about one of the most basic religious myths, and why would he? He’s a _pure-blood_.

Hermione rolls her eyes and turns back to the books she was looking at before she was interrupted, but after several seconds of silence, notes to her intense discomfort that Malfoy hasn’t moved an inch and is staring at her.

Turning to face him once more, she gives him an impatient look. “What is it, Malfoy? Want to try calling me a mudblood again?”

Malfoy—to her bemusement—looks slightly uneasy at that. “No,” he replies stiffly, then nods at the books she was looking at. “What are you searching for? Is it going to take long?”

“Why do you want to know?” she asks suspiciously.

He bristles. “None of your business; just go back to nosing around those useless old books if you want.”

It is obviously a ploy to get her riled up and distracted from being curious of what Malfoy might want in the Library. Unfortunately for Malfoy, Hermione is cleverer by half, and her gaze quickly drifts over to the section of bookcases next to hers—and her eyes widen in realisation, and shock.

“You’re looking for literature on _mug_ —”

Malfoy claps a hand over her mouth with a furious glare. “Shut your trap, Granger! I have a reputation to uphold!”

She slaps his hand away, half-tempted to knock him in the teeth with the edge of the hard-cover book she’s holding. “Well, pardon me. I suppose you’re only here to traipse around and make fun of muggles, aren’t you? Though I don’t know why you’d need to read about them to do it—you seem to bask in your ignorance most otherwise.”

“Has anyone ever told you how much of a huge bitch you are? Because someone ought to,” Malfoy snaps. “What I’m doing here, as I said before, is _none of your business_. Now get lost if you’re done.”

His defensiveness is an odd reaction that Hermione can’t let go, even as she inches away from him back towards her table. Halfway to her seat, however, it finally dawns on her and she turns back on her heels with a shocked gasp.

“You’re trying to learn more about muggles, aren’t you?”

Malfoy, who at that point moved towards the muggle-section and pulled out a very thick book, fumbles it at her exclamation, dropping it to the floor before hastily scrambling to pick it back up. Hermione glances at the title.

_A Compressed History of Muggle Science in the Twentieth Century._

“Didn’t I tell you to _shut up_?!” Malfoy hisses, red in the face as he shoves the book back into the row of non-fiction titles.

“I can’t believe this,” Hermione says to herself, feeling utterly dumbstruck by the mere thought. Even as she stands there, knowing it to be true, having just seen Malfoy himself handle a book on _muggle science_ , there is still part of her that rejects the reality of it as pure fantasy. It is not possible. It should not be possible. It is _incomprehensible_.

“I’m just trying to prove Potter wrong,” Malfoy replies heatedly in response even if her words hadn’t been aimed directly at him. “He said something ridiculous the other day—something about muggles going to the moon, or some hogwash.”

Hermione blinks. “They did, in fact.”

“Of course they did,” Malfoy sneers sarcastically. “Even if they somehow managed it, which I highly doubt, what reason would muggles possibly have to go to the moon?”

“Oh, so muggles ought to act like wizards and never explore the boundaries of human capability, never to progress, never to show _any_ concern of the uncountable things we have yet to discover? We should all be complacent with this pathetically small _speck_ of floating rock in an ever-expanding universe, should we?” Hermione retorts angrily.

“Wizards have accomplished countless things that muggles could not even dream of!” Malfoy all but yells at her, but his voice cracks and he suddenly does not sound as certain anymore. “We don’t _need_ muggles to explore anything!”

Hermione narrows her eyes sharply, continuing in a quieter but no less scornful tone. “That’s where you’re wrong. If it did not have any authority manipulating it, I imagine wizarding society would all but collapse on itself with how utterly lazy and unconcerned you lot are. Slytherin, the House of _ambition_? Oh please, I bet Salazar is twisting in his very grave to see what’s become of it! This kind of ridiculous isolation, this self-congratulatory indulgence… Tom was right after all—”

“Why, thank you,” Tom says pleasantly from beside her and Hermione _shrieks_.

 Malfoy, unable to see or hear Tom, looks utterly bewildered. “Have you lost your bloody mind, Granger?”

“I… I was…” Hermione breathes in deep, glaring intently at Tom who appeared out of absolutely nowhere (or perhaps he’d been next to her for quite some time, but she just happened to miss him in all her outrage). She faintly tries to regain her composure. “I just saw a bug.”

"What? Where?" Malfoy says, taking a step away from Hermione and glancing around.

Tom looks at her with distaste. “I am hardly an insect.” 

“Never you mind!” She reaches forward, grabbing Malfoy by the elbow and starting to drag him towards her table.

“What do you think you’re doing? Unhand me!” Malfoy snaps at her, trying to break free but finding that Hermione’s grip is vice-like. “Unhand me _at once_!”

She ignores him and instead shoves him down into her chair. “Sit down, be quiet, and listen,” Hermione orders sternly, taking the chair across from him with a gleam in her eyes that sends a chill down Malfoy’s spine. “You want to know about muggles? Fine, I’ll tell you about muggles—and by Merlin’s hat we are _not_ leaving here until I’ve cured you of your ignorance!”

Tom takes a seat next to them, and observes.

* * *

It is well into the evening and he’s exactly an hour past his curfew once Harry returns—with a book more than he intended to buy. Most of his new purchases have nothing to do with the original purpose of his sneaking out to Hogsmeade to begin with. One of the books is a detailed history of Azkaban, a second is a factual look at the many ways that minorities (such as werewolves) have been crushed under wizarding law, and a third book is a study done on the exact causes of the goblin rebellions and the consequences that still have a far-reaching impact in the present.

He hadn’t intended to buy them, but they caught his eye immediately after all that thinking he’d done earlier today. The way it’s all presented in class—especially the goblin rebellions—is without any humanity. History without empathy, empty descriptions of events without relating to them how it still affects society even now.

Honestly, someone ought to hire a new History of Magic professor. Even with Harry’s new-found attitude he finds it damn near impossible to stay awake during that class.

Bag heavy with his new books, Harry quietly moves through the corridor with _The Enigma of the Soul_ in his hands, skimming through it with his curiosity burning. He knows he probably won’t have much privacy to read it once he’s back to the dorm, so he has to go through the thin book before arriving.

_There hasn’t been much study into the area of soul magic, primarily because of its incredibly delicate nature and the vital part it plays in any living creature’s continued existence._

_It is considered common knowledge that once fractured by the committing of a grave sin, it is very difficult for the soul in question to heal. Of course this begs the question—what is considered_ sin _?_

_The more popular perspective, as many a philosopher has debated it in the past, is that this sin in question must be something abhorrent to one’s morality. They propose that any given person’s moral compass is inevitably tied and originates from their soul, and once the moral fibre is cut, so the soul will become injured. There is some disagreement towards this hypothesis, however._

_Some in the debate instead prefer the idea that the soul is not a reflection of one’s morals, but rather a purely neutral form of one’s life energy. Instead of morality originating from the soul, it is rather the owner that projects their principles onto their soul instead._

_This would mean that at birth the soul is a blank canvas, and gains shape during a person’s growth into adulthood—but more importantly, it might also mean that someone who is_ immoral _, might never be in danger of fracturing their soul at all. Under this theory, a man who commits a murder and thinks nothing of it would have his soul completely intact. After all, if they imprint their ethics onto their soul, then the soul would not be repulsed by the act._

_There is not enough evidence available to prove either school of thought right or wrong. One might look at the creation of a Horcrux to answer this question, but seeing as how this has only been known to happen a few times in history, it is an unreliable source of information, though perhaps the most controversial and interesting aspect of soul magic nevertheless._

_The process of creating a Horcrux namely involves a more forceful tearing of the soul with magic rather than the soul splitting from the “trauma” of committing something morally abhorrent—hence why it cannot be compared to the natural fracture that occurs in common cases._

_Though the trauma is a tool in creating it, and the reconciliation of a Horcrux can occur through intense regret and a true wish for forgiveness, one must note that once a Horcrux is created, both pieces (the soul it came from and the Horcrux itself) are left mangled and mutilated. This would mean that the morality tied to the soul itself is damaged as a consequence as well._

_In fact, if one were to assume that the soul is not merely a holder of one’s life energies and a vessel for a moral compass, if one were to assume that the soul is indeed the very essence of everything a person is, then disfiguring—let alone splitting—this part of someone’s core might very well drive them towards a state of complete and utter irredeemable immorality, and perhaps even insanity._

Sucked into the words on the pages, mind already racing with ideas, Harry is far less cautious than usual—perhaps putting a bit too much faith in his Cloak of Invisibility, he turns the corner without paying attention and walks right into another person.

His book falls to the floor, still open on the page he was reading, and his Cloak slips off his form.

Harry’s blood runs cold once he sees who he’s run into.

Professor Moody stares at him with one eye focused on his face while the other darts down to the book he’s dropped.

“You’re out late, Potter,” the man says, and before Harry can even think to quickly pick up his book the professor has already bent down and snatched it off the ground.

Moody’s good eye skims the lines, and then he stills, completely.

“I was… I was just heading back to the dorms, I swear,” Harry quickly rambles, though he knows he probably has no way of talking himself out of this one—and why is Moody starting to turn pale?

The professor snaps the small book shut, and tucks it into the inner pocket of his coat. “I’ll be confiscating this,” he says in his gruff voice, and Harry immediately opens his mouth to protest. “No _buts_ , Potter! You’re not supposed to be readin’ this in the first place.”

“I just got it from the bookstore—”

Moody snatches him by the arm, suddenly looking furious. “I don’t care where you damn well got it! You’re coming with me; we’ll be paying the Headmaster a visit _right now_.”

“W-what?” Harry’s heart sinks into his stomach. “But—” 

An arm suddenly wraps around his shoulders, pulling him away from Moody. “I’m terribly sorry, professor, I was the one who asked Harry to go out and buy some books for me. It's for an essay I'm writing, but I shouldn’t have involved Harry in it.”

Harry stares at Cedric in complete bemusement—the Hufflepuff prefect wearing an apologetic smile directed at Moody—and his heart nearly forgets to beat.

Moody gives them both a very long look, before pulling out Harry’s thin book again, waving it at Cedric. “So this is yours, you’re saying?”

“Yes sir,” Cedric replies evenly. “Sorry for the trouble, sir. I’ll go to the Headmaster’s office to explain myself immediately if you’d like.”

Some of the tension in Moody’s shoulders seems to deflate a bit, though he still appears very displeased. “No need for that, Diggory. Just keep out of trouble, both of you. Don’t want to attract any more negative attention after that Daily Prophet fiasco.”

Cedric colours slightly. “No, sir.”

“Well,” Moody keeps the book, putting it back in his pocket but shooing them away nonetheless. “Get going. Prefect or not, you oughtta be in your dorms by now, Diggory.”

“Of course, I’ll just, uh, escort Harry back first,” Cedric says, arm moving away from Harry’s shoulders so his fingers can curl around Harry’s hand. “Have a good evening, sir.”

Moody glances down at it once, then grumbles something underneath his breath before shaking his head and heading back from where he came. Something about _hormonal teenagers_ , Harry is pretty sure.

Of course that’s not important right now, however. What is important is the many, many questions the book raised about Tom, and how Moody went nuts when he saw that it was in Harry’s possession. Is there something he specifically isn’t allowed to find out about? Is it because he’s a fourth year, or because he’s Harry Potter?

Knowing his lot in life, it’s probably the latter.

But what’s more relevant at the moment is the information he gained from reading the book. If he hadn’t gotten caught he could’ve found out much more he’s sure, and he knows there’s got to be a faster way to get to Hogsmeade, but the most important thing is the possibly crucial bit of information he just discovered from the book itself.

It talked about fracturing one’s soul, from trauma, or from doing something immoral, or… or _intentionally_.

A Horcrux.

Is that… could that really be what Tom—

“Harry? Hello? Anyone in there?”

Harry startles at the touch on his shoulder, glancing up at Cedric whom he’d shamefully forgotten just rescued him from an embarrassing trip to Dumbledore. “Sorry, I just—” And then he remembers the last time he saw him ended up having their encounter printed for the whole of wizarding Britain to read, and Harry’s face turns red, mouth snapping shut.

A tiny, fearful part of him starts whispering, about how Cedric must blame him for it, about how he won’t want to have anything to do with him after this, how he’s about to get dumped in a big, _big_ way—

Cedric smiles a little uncertainly. “Is something wrong?”

Harry's not sure how to take his question, meeting it with confusion. “I… maybe? Isn’t there?”

“You mean the article?” Cedric guesses, sighing and brushing a hand through his hair. “Well, I’d be lying if I said that didn’t bother me.”

“Oh.” He knew it. Here it comes—

“I mean, where does she get the gall to try and pry into your private life? As if you’re not talked about enough in the press!” Cedric says, and Harry stares at him in quiet shock. “You’re not even seventeen yet and she apparently thinks it completely okay to _out_ you to the entire country without a second thought!”

“You’re not mad at me?” Harry can’t help but ask, and Cedric gives him an incredulous look.

“Why on _earth_ would I be mad at you?” Cedric says, reaching over now with his other hand to hold Harry’s left as well. “It’s all Skeeter’s fault, isn’t it? You didn’t ask for any of this. Are you alright, by the way? No one’s been harassing you over it, have they?”

He looks down at Harry with such genuine concern that Harry inches closer to him without thinking and presses against Cedric’s chest, and he’s rarely felt so safe before—so _protected_. The walls could start collapsing around them there and then and he’d still feel secure in Cedric’s arms.

“’M fine,” Harry mutters into Cedric’s robes, feeling the sound of the warm chuckle that follows rumble through Cedric’s chest against his cheek, the strong beat of his heart a soothing undertone. “Just tired.”

Tired might be an understatement; he has _a lot_ to think about.

“I know the fee- _fee-_ ling,” Cedric says, trailing off into a yawn mid-sentence, then briefly letting go of Harry’s hands to wrap his arms around Harry’s back in a snug embrace, leaning his chin down on the top of Harry’s head. Neither of them notice anything of the regular chill that dwells through Hogwarts' corridors, Harry particularly oblivious as he closes his eyes and just takes a moment to enjoy this rare sort of intimacy he's never had with  _anyone_ before, including Tom.

They linger like that for a while, comfortable and content, until Cedric speaks again. “You should go to bed.”

“You should come with me,” Harry replies sleepily without thinking, and when Cedric lets out a surprised laugh he quickly pulls out of the hug, sputtering in embarrassment. “Because you’re tired, I mean! Not because—”

“I get it,” Cedric says, peering down at him with a playful grin. "Got your mind in the gutter, eh, Potter?" 

“That’s not funny!” Harry protests, flushing red.

Cedric raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Fine, fine,” he sighs in mock-disappointment, before adding more seriously, “It's, ah, still a bit too early, anyway.”

“What?” Harry frowns, watching the flush glow on Cedric's neck. “What do you mean, _too early_?”

“Harry, have you ever even kissed someone before?”

Harry almost wants to reply with a yes, but reconsiders and instead keeps a stubborn silence.

He doesn’t want to think back to that unfortunate first experience, not right now.

Cedric smiles affectionately, before suddenly leaning forward and pressing his lips on Harry’s in a soft kiss that lasts all but a second, but somehow leaves Harry in a static shock nevertheless.

It is the shortest and most chaste touch of lips, but the way Cedric looks at him afterwards, touching on his cheek with a caress of his fingers and a sigh of content—it is so different, _feels_ different at its core from when Tom kissed him that Harry is slightly baffled.

It is not a flood bursting through a dam, nothing so spectacular, and it is not an empty feeling of touch like it was with Tom—instead it pours into him with a steady current, seeping into his bones and warming him from the inside out. It is the comfort of a hearth in a home, somewhere he never wants to leave.

“Go to bed, Harry,” Cedric whispers against his lips, kissing them again before pulling away with a soft smile.

Harry watches him walk away towards the Hufflepuff dorms in silence, raising one hand and pressing his palm flat against his chest, feeling the quick but steady beat of his heart, and wonders if this is what love feels like.


	23. Chapter 23

It is the Sunday before the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament, and Harry has yet to decide on what to do.

He lies awake in his bed early in the morning, when the sun has yet to rise and the dorms are still drenched in shadow. Just a few days have passed and he’s no closer to solving this particular riddle—he winces at the unintended pun—than he was when he first read the book on soul magic.

As far as he can see it, there are two main possibilities, both equally worrisome.

The first is that Tom was, in fact, created through the trauma of committing a morally reprehensible act, as the book mentioned. It is not a pleasant thought to linger on—what exactly does it mean? What is considered morally reprehensible? Or, perhaps more pertinently, what does _Tom_ consider to be morally reprehensible?

Could it be murder?

It’s the first thing that comes to mind, when Harry thinks of something morally reprehensible, something severe enough to inflict trauma upon one’s very soul. But the idea alone sounds absurd—Tom, committing _murder_? He has his faults sure enough, but Harry cannot imagine someone so helpful and attentive to ever do something so utterly horrendous.

The second option is that Tom is a Horcrux. As far as Harry understands it, and if he even recalls it correctly, the “morally reprehensible act” is less important in creating the Horcrux than the actual magic involved. And wasn’t that what Tom told him, when they first met in his second year?

_"I am part of a person, created by magic."_

It seems to be the most apt possibility, but just as troubling as the first. Harry only had the opportunity to read through the specific passage in the book once, but words and parts of sentences stick out to him in his memory that sound less than healthy.

Once a Horcrux is created, both pieces (original and Horcrux) are mutilated, damaged. Disfiguring and splitting leads to irredeemable immorality, possibly even _insanity_. 

It can’t be that Tom is a Horcrux—Harry flat-out refuses to believe it. That would mean that he would’ve been one for over fifty years, but he’s still perfectly sane, and a good person above all of his flaws and jagged edges.

So, crossing the second one out, that leaves the first option; that Tom did something so heinous and so horrible that his soul naturally split in two, after which he stored part of it in the diary. But this prospect does not sound any more palatable.

Are those his only two choices? Either his friend murdered someone in cold blood, or he’s on his way to becoming some sort of depraved maniac?

Harry twists and turns in his bed, burying his face into his pillow and resisting the urge to scream into it. He’s getting nowhere like this—two pages of a book are hardly enough to go on. Unfortunately, the rest of it is out of his reach. It would be too difficult to retrieve, especially considering the fact that it was _Moody_ of all people who confiscated it, and Harry has no clue where he could’ve hidden it.

He’ll have to make do with what he’s got.

Of course, there _is_ always a third possibility: maybe he’s getting everything completely wrong. Maybe he has interpreted the text inaccurately, maybe there’s something he’s still missing, and maybe he just needs more information before being able to tackle this particular problem. He doesn’t even know what a Horcrux precisely _is_ yet, let alone the details of how it is created. It could very well be that he’s jumping to conclusions at this point.

Harry sighs, turning on his side and noticing that the first glows of sunlight are starting to trickle into the dorms, shining faintly through the curtains of his bed.

Regardless of what the solution here is, there is one question he feels is far more important than anything else, the answer of which he won’t find in _any_ book:

Why was Tom created in the first place?

* * *

It can be said that Ron Weasley is universally liked by almost anyone in Gryffindor. The girls might not think of him as boyfriend-material (and that is putting it lightly), but they know he is someone that can be relied upon, loyal and trustworthy, and the boys are all in agreement that he’s a nice guy.

Well, they _were_ all in agreement.

Ron is very much aware of the fact that Seamus Finnigan’s opinion may have changed drastically over the course of the past few months.

It was just a few days ago, when Hermione departed on her own to the Library and Harry was apparently “on a date” with Cedric, that Ron was left mainly in the company of Neville, Dean and Seamus. In the past this wouldn’t have been a problem, but considering the ugly spat that took place at the start of the year after Harry was outed to the whole school, there was a lingering tension.

Lunch began innocently enough. Ron and Seamus avoided addressing each other directly, mostly listening in on Neville advising Dean about their Herbology assignment (which was an essay on the applications and dangers of Bubotuber pus).

Neville was describing the effects of the undiluted pus in great detail. Hearing about ugly yellow boils growing on the skin didn’t exactly help anyone’s appetite, aside from Neville, who thought it quite interesting that a substance normally used to rid oneself of acne could have the complete opposite effect if not prepared correctly.

It was at this point that a few owls flew in to deliver various letters and newspapers to the students in the Great Hall, and everything started going horribly wrong.

Seamus’ owl dropped a single, thick envelope, containing what Ron imagined must have been a strongly-worded letter, going by the grimace on his face.

“Your mum again?” Dean inquired, and Seamus nodded, casting a glare in Ron’s direction.

“She saw the Prophet article,” he said, and from that point on, tempers immediately flared, Ron scowling fiercely.

“Had a lot to say about Harry, did she?”

“She’s just worried about me, is all!”

“Oh, thinks he might grope you in your sleep, huh? Why don’t you go back to sleeping mummy’s bed again if it worries her so much?”

“Don’t talk about my mother, Weasley—”

“Then stop gossiping about my friend!”

“Well, maybe if he didn’t insist on flaunting it wherever he went my mother wouldn’t have to be worried!”

“Flaunting it?” Ron repeated, face burning red by then. “ _Flaunting_ it? You think he ASKED for this, you ignorant twat?!”

At some point—though his anger at the time made it all a rather blurry haze—Ron remembers Fred pulling him away from the table, George taking his place and attempting to soothe the prickly atmosphere with humour. It was a good thing they interfered; at the staff table, McGonagall looked to be five seconds away from marching down to the group and smacking them all with a week’s worth of detention.

Instead (and Ron only heard of this much later) she ended up inviting Seamus to her office for a less-than-pleasant conversation.

Ron hasn’t told Harry about this little incident—Harry has enough to worry about without having to deal with a bigoted dorm-mate. Besides, Ron was the one that incited it. Seamus’ views aren’t exactly tolerant, but it’s obvious who is responsible for it, and in his mind Ron is sure he was just defending his mother; he can’t fault Seamus for _that_ , at least.

It just made him remember all the times he was made fun of for not being as well off as most other people, and yet the way Harry always looked so grateful for whatever little his family offered him. He never cared about how rich they were or how they lived.

“Ron?” Harry hisses at him on a following Sunday morning, when Seamus is once again the first to leave the dorms, footsteps thundering on the stairs with his descent.

“Hmm?” Ron says, feeling pleased knowing about the scolding McGonagall must’ve given Seamus a few days ago.

“Is it just me, or is Seamus more… um, hostile than usual?”

“Don’t worry about him, mate,” Ron replies, stretching in his bed with a great big yawn. “He’ll learn to get over it, eventually. Just takes time.”

Harry hums uncertainly in reply, but lets the topic drop. As the two boys get ready for breakfast, which will be followed by a trip to Hogsmeade, Ron notices that in spite of Harry’s attempts to keep the mood light-hearted, he’s not at all talkative and his usual wit is lacking.

He’s a bit distracted, yes, but the bigger problem seems to be whatever is weighing on his mind that makes his shoulders slump and his eyes drift off whenever Ron tries making eye-contact. He looks oddly tired.

“Hey,” Ron says a bit louder than usual, finally catching Harry’s attention properly, “d’you want to see something cool?”

“What?” Harry says curiously, just having put his shoes on, and Ron approaches Seamus’ bedside table, picking up the Transfiguration book sitting at the very top of the small stack of various textbooks.

He holds the book up, away from his face toward Harry, and flips it open. A bright, glittering, rainbow-coloured powder bursts out of the pages, not stretching far enough to hit Harry but creating a right mess on the floor.

Harry’s jaw is slack for a moment before his lips twists into laughter, pressing a hand over his mouth in slight disbelief. 

“Fred and George hexed all his books last night,” Ron explains with a great wide smirk, closing the book and putting it away. “Seamus is going to look absolutely _fabulous_ come Monday.”

“Ron,” Harry says as he lowers his hand from his mouth, wearing a carefree smile that Ron hasn’t seen for weeks, “your brothers are absolutely brilliant.”

Ron smiles back with a shrug.

“It runs in the family.”

* * *

Tom’s fingers slide over the surface of the window, leaving behind a thin trail in its fogged up, frost-covered glass. He can barely make out the small forms of the three children he has grown accustomed to over the past few weeks, Weasley’s hair standing out most among the trio as they walk towards Hogsmeade in a chilly winter wind that has their robes and scarves fluttering along.

“There is something you should know, my Lord,” Barty Crouch Jr. says, still wearing Moody’s face. The nervous trill in his voice catches Tom’s attention, coaxing him into pulling away from the view below the tower to look at Crouch, who remains fixed firmly behind his desk.

“What is it?” Tom inquires curtly when he realises the man is waiting for permission to speak. It has been so long since he was surrounded by sycophants that he’s forgotten the way he’s supposed to behave around them. It is sickeningly stifling, but a necessity.

Crouch opens a drawer, pulling out a small, thin book and opening it to a specific page before putting it on top of the desk, sliding it over to him.

Ordinarily Tom would simply walk over to pick it up, but it is high time he starts using magic again. With a beckoning flick of his finger, he pulls at it like a string on a harp and it obliges beautifully, the small book lifting off the desk and floating towards him, hovering at eye-level for his convenience.

“Potter was reading it, a few days ago,” Crouch says nervously, inching away even from the desk to put even more distance between them.

Well, his curiosity has now certainly been piqued. Tom lays eyes on the first page opened in front of him, and then—as if he has pulled too hard on that same string and it has snapped and cut through his finger like a whip—the book drops from mid-air onto the floor.

Tom stares at it, unmoving, and a soft voice from the depths of his mind hisses into his ear like a viper:

_‘He knows what you are.’_

* * *

The Three Broomsticks is packed with people, but on sheer luck Hermione manages to arrange a table for the three of them.

The friends order butterbeer for themselves and sink into the warm atmosphere in the pub as they speculate on what the First Task might be, as well as Ron regaling Hermione with the scheme of the rainbow-powder inside of Seamus’ books.

Harry chuckles at Hermione’s expected disapproval and Ron’s annoyed eye-rolling at being once again lectured. He sips from his butterbeer, the drink warming him from the inside out as he listens to Hermione inform them about the latest letter sent by her parents, asking her what she wants to do come winter break.

“I _was_ considering staying at Hogwarts,” she muses. “I have so many things to still work on—and my presentation for Ancient Runes is scheduled for right after the break as well.”

“Oh, come on,” Ron gives her an unbelieving look. “It’ll be Christmas! I’m sure your perfect grades will survive a few weeks off.”

“It’s just that I’m not particularly _fond_ of it,” Hermione replies with a heavy sigh. “It’s going to be a whole family reunion at my parents’ house, and that rarely ends well.”

“Why’s that?”

“Politics,” Hermione replies, not elaborating any further. “Besides, I believe we’re going to have the Yule Ball during Christmas anyway.”

“I’m sorry—the what?” Harry inquires curiously.

Apparently, as Hermione explains, it is a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament that will most likely be held again this time around as well, something about an opportunity to socialise with their guests or what have you. A little tidbit she read when researching the Tournament.

“A formal ball? Sounds boring,” Ron says, taking a swig from his butterbeer. “What were you going to do during Christmas break, Harry?”

For a moment, Harry is confused—Ron should know by now that he’ll be staying at Hogwarts, like he always does. But then something of understanding dawns in Ron’s gaze as he looks at Harry’s puzzled expression, and then Hermione says, with a kind look:

“You could celebrate Christmas with Sirius and Professor Lupin, couldn’t you?”

Harry’s mouth slowly opens and closes, but the words are stuck in the back of his throat as he realises, in a complete daze, that Hermione is right.

He has a home to return to.

Looking down at his butterbeer, Harry blinks a few times, vision swimming briefly before the glassiness recedes and his nose stops burning. It shouldn’t be anything to cry over, and the lump in his throat is nothing compared to the profound lightness in his chest, but it is a thing he never thought to have: a place that’s waiting for him with open arms, outside of Hogwarts.

He feels rather than sees Hermione’s hand on his wrist, instead directing his eyes away from his two friends, feeling the embarrassment in getting so emotional over something most people would consider utterly normal.

Gaze fixed on the windows of the pub, when he spots a familiar tuft of bronze hair it gives him the perfect excuse to escape the awkward silence.

“I think that’s Cedric over there,” he says quickly, standing up. “I should-I should go say hello.”

Hermione looks like she wants to say something to stop him but Ron shakes his head slightly, and she lets Harry leave without protest.

It takes a moment to weave through all the tables and chairs in the busy pub, but Harry is outside within the minute. The cold wind hits his warmed up cheeks harshly, and it’s only then he realises he must’ve been quite flushed, which does nothing to help his lingering embarrassment.

It’s almost as busy outside as it is inside—mostly filled with students from Hogwarts, and Harry even spies Skeeter among the small crowd, though he only catches a glimpse as her blond head quickly disappears again, thankfully not having noticed him. This doesn’t make finding Cedric any easier, however.

Harry wanders among the other students, wondering where the Hufflepuff could’ve possibly disappeared to in so short a time. He walks around the pub, peering into a small side-street that’s far less crowded but devoid of any sign of Cedric, then moving past an alleyway next to it with a glimpse, spotting only a solitary, tall figure standing in the shadows with hair too dark to be Cedric’s, and so Harry nearly moves right along again until he realises who that black hair belongs to.

Slightly incredulously, Harry stares at Tom for a moment before glancing around, and confirming that no one’s watching him, he slips into the alleyway as well.

“Tom?” he asks quietly as he approaches, and finds that Tom’s expression is more controlled—or rather, closed off, than he’s used to it being. “What’re you doing here?”

“I overheard something rather interesting this morning,” Tom says, not even looking at Harry but staring at a group of students that pass the alleyway as he speaks, tone carefully neutral. “Your Defence Professor seems to have confiscated a very particular novel, which he was handing over to the janitor; a small book called _The Enigma of The Soul_. He mentioned in passing that the student he confiscated it from—”

“It’s not what you think,” Harry interrupts him hastily, even though he knows he’s been caught and there isn’t a lie in the world that can save him from the piercing look Tom is giving him right about now. There’s nothing hostile or even remotely angry about it—if anything, it looks more appraising, and that makes Harry far more nervous than any sort of ire might have.

“Is it not?” he queries, expression unchangingly unsympathetic. “I must say, you’re more resourceful than I gave you credit for, Harry.”

“I would’ve asked you,” Harry tries to explain. “I would have, but you wouldn’t have given me an honest answer, we both know that.”

“Maybe so,” Tom concedes coolly. “But I fail to see how that gives you the right to go prying into my secrets.”

There is something very measured about the way Tom is talking to him—like he’s actually actively suppressing something. Aside from his eyes and the slightest movement of his head, he looks to be almost rooted to the spot like a statue. He is not the smooth and charming young man Harry is used to seeing, and it unnerves him. Did he really go that far out of line?

A more frightening thought occurs to him then.

Does that mean there’s any truth to what was written in the book, relating to Tom?

“You’re right,” Harry responds after a disquieting silence, trying not to be bothered by the way Tom is looming over him, and it might not even be something Tom is doing consciously, but for the first time Harry realises how _tall_ he really is. “I’m sorry, I was wrong to go behind your back. I just thought, maybe if I knew more about your… your situation, that I could help you—”

“I hardly think a fourteen-year-old would be any help with ancient magic he didn’t even know existed up until three days ago,” Tom snaps, tone sharp and clipped like the snip of scissors. Harry almost takes a bodily step back at the sheer scorn radiating from the words, and even Tom himself looks briefly taken aback by his own outburst.

It is so strange to see—it’s like Tom is tip-toeing on rope as frayed as his nerves, making Harry wonder where all this tension came from.

Then again, he _has_ been rather occupied by Cedric lately, and hasn’t really had a one-on-one moment with Tom in a while. How long has Tom been this troubled, and why didn’t Harry notice it before?

“What’s bothering you?” Harry asks with a frown. “It can’t just be about me reading that book. You’re really stressing about something else as well, aren’t you?”

He watches the muscle in Tom’s jaw clench briefly. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“I’m your friend; of course it has something to do with me!” Harry insists stubbornly. “I care about—”

“That does not give you the right to go meddling wherever and whenever you wish,” Tom states with finality, eyes gleaming dangerously in warning. “Whatever you read in that silly book, forget about it, and don’t bring it up again.”

Tom turns away from him, turns his back on him, probably to disappear and leave back to Hogwarts, and even though Harry has never had him act so coldly towards him before he won’t be dismissed so easily.

With a scowl, he opens his mouth before Tom can vanish.

“Are you a Horcrux?”

Tom freezes on the spot, and something inside of Harry thrums erratically—a small bit of victory, still eclipsed by horrifying new possibilities.

“Well?” he prods adamantly when he receives no reply, not even any sort of glance in his direction. Tom remains transfixed. “Are you?”

A long moment passes and Harry wishes he could see his friend’s face, and he feels bad, he feels terrible doing this to him, but it’s for the best. It has to be. Even if Tom doesn’t think so, surely there is _some_ way he could help—

“If you truly want to call yourself my friend,” Tom starts slowly, his voice deathly quiet, “then you will never ask me that again.”

Harry almost wants to argue, out of sheer frustration, not only with Tom for not being honest with him but also with himself for being so useless and powerless in this situation, not being able to help a friend in need.

But then Tom turns his head slightly, just enough for Harry to see the left side of his face, Tom’s visible eye downcast, and he says softly, “Please, Harry.”

Harry does not understand, and he wishes he knew what was plaguing Tom and could offer him all the answers and solutions to his problems—but he doesn’t, and he can't. Instead, Harry can only grant him some temporary peace of mind, even if part of him wants to deny it in favour of the truth.

“Alright.”

Tom vanishes, and Harry plans to keep to his word about not asking Tom again.

That does not mean he can’t ask someone else, however.

* * *

His talk with Tom would’ve bothered him more over the entirety of Monday, were it not for the fact that Cedric will be competing in the First Task the following Tuesday—and apparently Ron has it on good authority that the First Task will be dragons.

 _Dragons_.

The first person Harry ever dated, and they’ll be fighting against a bloody dragon not a month into their relationship. Not even seeing Seamus walk around all of Monday with his face and robes covered in rainbow-coloured glitter was enough to make him feel even a tad bit better about the event that would take place the next day.

“You alright, Harry?” Neville asks him on the morning of the First Task when Harry has to take a moment to let reality sink in before putting on his socks. “You look a little green.”

“I think he’s more afraid of the First Task than Cedric is,” Ron comments leisurely, earning a scowl from Harry.

“He’s going to fight a dragon!” Harry exclaims. “ _A dragon_ , Ron!”

“Well,” Ron says. “At least now you know how Hermione and I feel whenever you end up doing something suicidal.”

“You’re just as guilty of that as I am!”

“Sorry, _whose_ idea was it to try and get to the Philosopher’s Stone before anyone else while it was guarded by _life-threatening_ challenges? It sure wasn’t Neville’s, I can tell you that!”

“Dragons?” Neville says faintly from beside his bed, not at all having followed the conversation.

Ron gives Harry an accusatory look.

“Oh, whatever,” Harry huffs, angrily pulling his socks on. “Not like it was going to stay a secret for long.”

It’s hard for Harry to eat anything during breakfast that morning. Lessons will stop at midday, giving all the students time to get down to the dragons' enclosure—though of course, most of them have no idea what they’ll find there. Considering this, breakfast is the only time in the day where Harry really has a chance to see Cedric for a last time before he’s off to _fight a bloody dragon_ (who in their right mind designed this stupid task, anyway?).

When he descends the many stairs down to the Great Hall, Harry has many an idea of what he’ll do and what he’ll say to Cedric once he sees him. Most involve some sort of hugging, but all of it comes down to a very simple wish good luck in the end.

It’s when Harry actually enters the Great Hall and starts approaching the Hufflepuff table that the burn of attracting so many eyes is particularly nerve-wracking when he’s about to have a moment with his boyfriend (and he still wonders at that word, whether it’s even accurate when they haven’t even talked about it yet). Intimacy is fine in closed spaces, but it makes him feel strikingly vulnerable out in public.

Nevertheless, he walks over to the Hufflepuff table, seeing Cedric seated in his usual spot somewhere in the middle. He catches Cedric’s eyes and feels a bit of weight lift off his chest when he sees the pleased shine in them as Cedric looks at him, but when Harry comes to a stop in front of him, he suddenly doesn’t know what to say.

“Um,” he starts nervously, acutely aware of all the people listening in. Cedric’s friends seated around him at least have the decency to pretend they’re not eavesdropping, but they are decidedly the exception.

“Good morning,” Cedric greets him gently, eyes dancing with mirth at Harry’s nervous habit of brushing his hand through his hair.

“Good morning,” Harry mumbles, making the mistake of briefly drifting off to the staff table and realising with horror that he’s doing this in front of his teachers. In front of _Dumbledore_ —who, despite smiling pleasantly, isn’t making Harry any less nervous.

“Something you want to say to me, Harry?” Cedric helps him along graciously.

“Yeah, uh,” Harry blinks, trying to form coherent sentences in his head. He can’t damn well hug him in front of the entire school now, can he? He really ought to have thought this through—

And then he spots Seamus from the corner of his eyes, giving him an angry look.

And more students, few and far in-between, shooting him hateful glares or disgusted sneers and whispers trailing through the atmosphere, undercutting the good-natured curiosity of most.

And Cedric, for all his kindness and thoughtfulness, supposed to have been well-liked by everyone the slightest bit uneasy now, because those hateful glares and disgusted sneers are directed at _him_ as well.

And for a moment, Harry finds himself angry, because he’s been judged ever since he stepped foot into this school and that’s fine, he’s used to it, he can take it, but Cedric shouldn’t have to put up with such resentment, shouldn’t even have to _see_ it, and who are they to judge anyway—

So Harry does what he does best; he goes by instinct. Infuriated, vindictive instinct.

It takes all but a few seconds. His hands curl into Cedric’s robes, and he swoops down, kissing him so hard for a moment their teeth click uncomfortably at first and Cedric makes a noise of surprise in the back of his throat, which Harry finds he doesn’t dislike for the way it hums against his mouth as the kiss softens.

He feels fingers in his hair and a tongue sliding over his lower lip, just for a moment, just long enough to make a pleasant current run through his spine before Cedric pulls away and Harry only then becomes aware of the hooting and jeering that he’d completely failed to notice in the daze of his daring.

“That’s a very novel way of wishing me good luck,” Cedric laughs, slightly breathless, eyes blown wide as he smiles widely.

Harry licks his lips anxiously, not missing the way Cedric’s eyes glance at the movement, his stomach doing a spontaneous flip inside his gut.

“Um, yes, well,” Harry stammers for a moment, doing his best not to make eye-contact with anyone else. “Good luck.”

The kiss doesn’t help at all to allay his concerns for Cedric’s safety, but at least that vindictive instinct of his is pleased when he glances at Seamus again and finds that his head looks like it’s about to explode.

Which, at this point, Harry wouldn’t quite mind if it did.

* * *

It is most curious.

There are few things he feels anymore, trapped in this feeble form as he is. Not the chill haunting the ruins of this mansion, not the soft warmth of the well-lit fireplace in front of him, not the gentle press of the cushions underneath him. All of it is lost as he suffers in humiliation, dependent on a pathetic worm who dares calling himself a wizard, only crawling back to him in fear and nothing more.

Yet, there was moment, where he thought he might have  _felt_.

Curious indeed. It was nothing more than a flash, a mere speck of time that he would otherwise consider entirely insignificant, or not even consider at all. He would not have noticed it, were it not for how familiar and yet foreign the sensation truly was.

A sense of inexplicable dread, and the utterance of a single thought:

_'He knows what you are.'_

The creature that calls itself Lord Voldemort stares into the fire, and wonders.


	24. Chapter 24

“Do you know the Conjunctivitis Curse?” Harry asked him the day before. Cedric replied that yes, he did know the Curse, confused about the sudden change in topic when just a moment ago they had been talking about the possible workings of hexing a book to spew out rainbow-coloured glitter.

Harry nodded in understanding, giving him a thoughtful look. “How’s your aim?”

“Pretty good—why?”

His boyfriend shrugged. “Might want to keep it in mind, ‘s all,” he said cryptically, and then his free period ended and he hurried off to Ancient Runes with a quick goodbye, leaving Cedric completely in the dark about what had just occurred.

Now, standing in a large tent with a miniature dragon twirling its small body around his gloved fingers, Cedric looks back on that conversation and silently prays his aim really is as good as he thinks it is.

The tiny version of the Swedish Short-Snout, with its beautiful silvery blue scales, nips at the tip of his ring-finger when he wiggles it. Feeling like his current numbness is only a cover for the panic bloating in his chest like a balloon, Cedric decides with no small amount of hysteric insanity that the dragon looks actually rather cute this size, and wonders if they’ll let him keep the small model as a pet if he makes it out of this alive.

 _‘I’m going to die_ ,’ he thinks with an eerie sort of resignation, feeling his heart’s beat echoing in his skull as it pounds through the blood vessels in his head. A high-pitched roar vibrates through the small tent and Ludo Bagman puts a hand on his shoulder, saying something he can’t hear because he feels like he’s underwater, Bagman prying the miniature dragon off his finger.

And then, as he steps outside the tent and walks into the dragon’s enclosure feeling like he’s going to upchuck his breakfast at any moment, he thinks with no small amount of horror, ‘ _I’m going to die a virgin_ ,’ as he stares at the stands filled with people screaming things at him, wishing he could find his friends or Harry in the crowd just for some reassurance that at least someone he can trust will be able to tell his parents how he died.

It seems like a ridiculous thing to worry about, his virginity that is, but it was always one of those teenage milestones he figured he’d hit easily enough. He experienced some things, sure, but he never went _all the way_ and the thought bothers him more than he can eloquently express when faced with death.

‘ _I’m going to die a virgin and I never even had my rebellious phase, never got to tell my dad to piss off, didn’t even come out properly, oh God I haven’t hugged my mum in nearly a_ year _—’_

When he sees the dragon, for a moment, Cedric wonders if it’s too late to turn back around and throw the whole thing, House glory be damned.

Its scales are even more beautiful in its true size, spread impressively over a slender body and large, powerful wings. The chained creature itself is settled squarely in the centre of the wooden enclosure—Cedric assumes it to be protected with spells because _wood_ and _dragonfire_ do not go well together—hovering over a nest filled with large eggs, one of which glimmering a bright golden hue even in shadow.

It takes Cedric a moment to register the deafening roar of the crowd and Bagman’s scattered commentary as the dragon’s eyes glowing bright green in the sun ( _like Harry’s_ ) turn to focus on him, pupils drawn to slits in territorial fury ( _not like Harry’s_ ).

Once more, it roars.

Sound ceases to exist.

Cedric realises that he has no plan.

None but to run and dive instinctively for the nearest boulder (even as small as it is) because if he knows anything about dragons it’s that you’re never supposed to underestimate their reach.

The Swedish Short-Snout hisses out a dazzling blue fire which, Cedric thinks as he can feel the heat of it surrounding him like an oppressive wind, must look much prettier when you’re not about to get burned to a crisp by it.

 _‘Focus—your boyfriend’s watching,_ ’ he tells himself in some desperate attempt to not just curl up into the fetal position and cry. _‘Remember the goal.’_

The bloody Golden Egg.

Cedric waits nervously until the dragon is out of breath, hands shaking so badly he nearly fumbles his wand, taking a deep breath and peeking out from around the corner of the rock of which the edges are _melting_ , they’re fucking _melting_ and it won’t survive as a hiding spot for long.

He only has all but a few seconds to look for another place to hide, diving out of cover and running as fast as his feet can carry him—the dragon lunges down at him, Cedric _feels_ the snapping of its jaws a hair’s breath away, but the chain on its neck isn’t long enough and aside from a torn shirt, Cedric thinks he must be fine.

He practically rolls behind a larger rock that, while closer to the dragon than the other one, is thicker and seems more secure. The dragon breathes more fire at it, and Cedric has to wipe the sweat off his brow to keep it from dripping into his eyes. When the dragon finally pauses to breathe, he cautiously peers around the edge of his cover.

The Egg sits secure in the nest, right underneath the dragon—and Cedric notices a few things that he might not have had he not been scared absolutely shitless, senses on high alert, trying to pick up _anything_ that might help, even the slightest detail.

He now understands what Harry was trying to tell him, but he can’t possibly use the Conjunctivitis Curse when there’s a good risk the dragon might end up accidentally stepping on the eggs when blinded. Not to mention that its head is angled upward, seeing as how it has only two hind-legs to balance on, which makes hitting the eyes nearly impossible to begin with.

_‘Wait… just two hind-legs?’_

The dragon has no forward limbs.

It only has wings, and two lower legs, but nothing that it could swipe at him with. Still, just running over there is a terrible idea, and Cedric can’t imagine that the Egg would be unprotected to a Summoning Spell. He tries it anyway, muttering it underneath his breath because you can never be sure, but the Egg doesn’t even twitch from its spot among the others—

Cedric stares at the clutch of eggs, sitting in the nest.

The dragon has no forward limbs. It can’t swipe at him, or at _anything else_ —

Merlin’s _bloody_ beard.

“ _Accio dragon’s nest!”_

The Swedish Short-Snout lunges at it when the nest is yanked out from underneath it by the spell, jaws snapping in some ridiculous attempt to snatch the floating nest back, and that’s when Cedric finally gets a good angle on its eyes.

With a last prayer and a colourful swear he jumps out from behind the safety of the boulder because he _has_ to increase his vision as much as possible if he wants his aim to hold up, and there is a long, terrifying moment that feels like a lifetime where he—no bigger than one of the dragon’s claws—stands directly in front of it, as he looks the creature in the eyes and it looks right back at him, and it feels like the whole world is holding its breath because the dragon is breathing in and if he isn’t fast enough, _if he isn’t fast enough_ —

“ _CONJUNCTIVITIS!”_

The purple curse hits its mark perfectly before the dragon can breathe out the fire building in its lungs, the curse almost instantly swelling the dragon’s eyes shut, the large creature flailing and spitting out fire in the air—

And then the nest practically flies into his torso and a moment later Cedric is sitting there on the ground in numb shock, trying to balance a clutch full of eggs on his lap, the noise of the crowd thundering back into his ears.

He reaches to grab the Golden Egg out of the nest, staring at it in sheer disbelief.

It couldn’t have been that easy—and yet it was.

“ _He’s done it! In an unbelievably ingenious move, Cedric Diggory has secured the Egg in a mere_ three minutes _in total!”_

(Had he known beforehand, had he thought up a plan to get the Egg in advance, his performance would’ve been far the worse for it, because sometimes improvisation is just as important as having a plan, and some people—used to expectation, used to stress, anxiety, the fear of failure—simply work better under pressure.)

As about a dozen wizards work to subdue the raging Swedish Short-Snout, Cedric pushes the nest of other eggs off his legs, carefully standing up and looking around the stadium with wide eyes, hundreds of people cheering him for his victory.

The sound is all white noise; they might’ve roared just as loudly had he failed and been killed, and suddenly finds he _really_ doesn’t care about the glory, the trophy, the fame or even the money.

He just wants to make it through this Tournament alive.

When he finally gathers his senses enough to start walking back out of the enclosure with the Golden Egg in his arms, he’s greeted by Professor Sprout at the very edge, waiting for him with a smile so proud that the woman looks like she wants to crush him in a hug, instead ushering him towards a second tent that had been put up next to the Champions’ tent, Madam Pomfrey looking severe and very worried as she waits for him.

"Dragons!" she says in a disgusted tone, pulling him inside. The first aid tent is divided into cubicles; for now, he’s the only one present. Madam Pomfrey examines him from head to toe, talking furiously all the while. "Last year dementors, this year dragons, what are they going to bring into this school next? You're very lucky, Diggory! It seems you’ve avoided any serious injuries, but we’ll have to do something about these cuts on your back.”

Cedric blinks, reaching behind him, feeling at his skin and when he pulls his hand back its comes away with the fingertips spotted with blood. He hadn’t even noticed it before, but now he knows he suddenly feels the stinging pain on his back. The dragon’s teeth had just barely grazed him. He feels nauseous just thinking back to it.

To his relief she doesn’t make him drink anything gross, instead letting him go just a minute later after muttering a spell that stitches the superficial cuts right back together and handing him a new shirt. Cedric is still in a daze when he exits the tent, the nurse instructing him to return to the enclosure as the judges would be giving out his score.

And then he’s practically tackled by a solid body that nearly has them both toppling over, knocking the breath right out of him and nearly the Golden Egg right out of his arms. It only takes him a second to recognise the messy hair in the edges of his vision.

“Harry!” Cedric gasps, not having expected to see him so soon—not to mention that his grip is almost bruising his ribs.

“Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t—you’re not still hurt, are you? How’s your back?” Harry says quickly as he pulls away, looking far more restless than Cedric has ever seen.

“No, I’m fine,” Cedric reassures him, attempting a slight grin, legs still weak from the adrenaline slowly draining from him together with his energy. “Just a few scratches, but Madame Pomfrey took care of them.”

Harry gives him a brilliant smile, looking just as proud as Professor Sprout. “You were bloody amazing, you know that?”

“I…” In truth, Cedric barely remembers it now that it’s over; it’s all a strange blur inside his mind. “Thanks, Harry.”

“Really, you were,” Harry takes his hand, squeezing it—less for Cedric’s comfort, and more for his own, Cedric suspects. He even looks a little pale. “I nearly had a heart attack when I saw you running for cover, and then at the end jumping out in front of the dragon; that was absolutely mad!”

“Are you alright, Harry?” Cedric asks when he feels a pang of pain through his hand.

“What? Me? Of course I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’re crushing my fingers, and your hands are shaking.”

Harry looks down at the fist he has curled around Cedric’s bones, slowly loosening his grip. “Oh.”

“Are you alright?” Cedric repeats his question patiently.

“Yeah, I just—I just… I’m not used to…”

“Seeing _other_ people throw themselves at danger?”

“I lost it a little,” Harry admits quietly, still staring at their hands. “It wasn’t even that you were in danger, it was that… that I couldn’t do anything about it. That I wouldn’t be able to save you. That I just had to stand there and watch.”

Cedric’s heart tightens in his chest with fondness and sympathy for this selfless boy who’s heroic to the point of being suicidal, and he’s only fourteen. Only fourteen, and his first thought had been wanting to save Cedric from _a bloody dragon_.

“Hermione did warn me about your saviour-complex,” he quips, the morose mood hanging over Harry disappearing in an instant, replaced by indignation.

“What? That’s not true! I just care about people, is all!”

Cedric laughs at the heated protest, shaking his head as he pulls Harry along down towards the enclosure, an arm around his shoulders. “Keep telling yourself that.”

With the dragon out of the enclosure Cedric now gets a view of the judges, who are sitting in raised seats draped in gold.

He sees Madame Maxime, the first judge, raise her wand in the air. What looks like a long silver ribbon shoots out, which twists itself into a large figure of nine.

Harry cheers for him as Cedric merely waits in tension—he has no idea what his performance looked like to the audience, after all. What he remembers mostly is a sheer sense of terror and adrenaline.

Mr. Crouch is next—he shoots out a ten.

Dumbledore, as the third judge, awards him a nine.

Ludo Bagman—a nine.

Lastly, Karkaroff. He raises his wand, pauses for a moment, then shoots out a five.

“Probably not enough blood involved for his taste,” Harry mutters darkly, Cedric giving him a questioning look. “Sirius mentioned in a letter that he used to be a Death Eater. No idea why _he’s_ in charge of a school.”

After the scores have all been handed out—Cedric has a good feeling about it, even if he has no one to compare it to yet—they walk back towards the tents, talking animatedly; Cedric mainly asking Harry more about his life with his godfather and where he lived before that, wanting to know more about him.

Then, as they round the clump of trees just a few feet away from the tents, a witch leaps out from behind them.

Rita Skeeter. She’s wearing acid-green robes today; the Quick-Quotes Quill in her hand blends perfectly against them, curled blond hair styled in an elegant if old-fashioned short crop.

"Congratulations, Cedric!" she says, beaming at him, her eyes flitting to Harry once. "I wonder if the two of you could give me a quick word? How you both felt about Cedric facing that dragon? How you feel now, about the fairness of the scoring?"

"Yeah, you can have a word," Harry replies viciously. " _Goodbye_."

And they set off back to the tents, hands intertwined.

* * *

“Well,” Hermione says, clutching her books to her chest as she stares at Draco Malfoy, sitting at _her_ usual spot in the Library. Malfoy looks up at her, and she hesitates, before clearing her throat and starting again. “Well, this is unexpected.”

It’s a table edged against the glassless windows of the castle facing the sun, seated between two large rows of bookcases. The dust particles originating from shelves upon shelves of old books are illuminated by the sunlight while floating on a scent of old parchment; Malfoy, with his pale face and cold grey eyes, is a stark contrast to the otherwise serene glow of Hermione’s usual spot.

“I’ve been thinking, after that ridiculous lecture you gave me,” Malfoy says uneasily as he shifts a bit in his seat while Hermione sits down across from him, pointedly ignoring her eyes. “muggles are… they’re strange.”

“In what way?” she asks carefully, trying not to be perturbed by the fact that she’s having a civil conversation with _Malfoy_ of all people.

“They’re like ants, aren’t they?” he says, appearing entirely serious and not actually derisive this time, which is the only thing that keeps Hermione from bristling. “Completely insignificant as far as wizards are concerned, and unaware of their own insignificance, finding strength in numbers. It is a mystery to me how they’ve survived for as long as they did, without magic.”

“That’s because human beings,” Hermione starts, catching his eyes and emphasising, “ _human beings_ —not wizards or muggles, but all of us humans, are resourceful if nothing else. Even when we lack tools of magic, we still make ends meet and accomplish many great things without it.”

Malfoy looks at her as if she’s just introduced him to an entirely new concept, and the sad part is, perhaps she even has. He makes a face at first, at being grouped together with muggles—but then there is a subtle shift in his expression, taking on a more pondering note.

“Magic isn’t just a tool,” he says then with a frown. “It’s a way of life.”

“Magic has only ever been a tool,” Hermione replies. “Just like science is a tool. Different kinds of tools for different things, yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that your family, and all such traditionalists, have given that tool an extra meaning that is not naturally ascribed to it.

“What makes a muggle so inferior to you? Because they can’t make a chair levitate? Then you’d be just as inferior to them as they are to you, because you don’t know how to use a phone. What makes magic _better_ than science, when they're completely incomparable to begin with? It doesn’t make sense at all, does it?”

Malfoy stays quiet, looking very much like he’s trying his hardest to come up with a retort, trying to find some sort of snappy response to shut her up with, but she can see it in her eyes—logic and rationality, clashing with years of pureblood upbringing.

“Muggles don’t…” Malfoy shakes his head. “They don’t have a _place_ in wizarding society.”

“Well, no one’s suggesting we just open ourselves up to them right at this moment,” Hermione says reasonably. “But what about muggleborns? Halfbloods? What about every other creature you look down upon just because it doesn’t happen to be a pureblood wizard? Just because you don’t understand it?”

“We’re just—we’re simply _better_!” Malfoy snaps now, but there is an uncertain tremor in his voice that Hermione doesn’t miss. “We’ve always been better!”

“Do you really believe that,” she asks carefully, “or were you _taught_ to believe that?”

A pause, and then a snarl, “What does that matter?”

Hermione gives him a pitying look, before rising from her seat to wander into the many rows of books, leaving Malfoy to stew in his thoughts.

She all but turns around the corner of a bookcase and nearly walks into Tom, who apparently has been standing there for a while, gaze aimed at Malfoy but distant, as if he’s seeing something else entirely.

“Um,” Hermione says, flustered at nearly having walked _literally_ into him, and Tom looks up at her with that same distant stare.

“Sorry,” he apologies softly, but there is no polite smile, nor any further attempt at conversation as he goes back to staring in Malfoy’s general direction.

“That’s quite alright,” Hermione gives him a worried look; she’s never seen him so demure before. “Is something troubling you?”

He doesn’t answer, as if he hasn’t heard her at all, and Hermione tries again. “I think I might actually get through to him, eventually,” she says, in regards to Malfoy. “I never thought he’d be open to it at all—I suppose maybe Harry has had a bigger effect on him than I expected.”

At this Tom looks at her again, and then his mouth curls up in a bitter smile, and he laughs the hollowest, emptiest sound Hermione’s ever heard, as if she’d just made a tragically ironic joke. She's almost disturbed by it.

“Yes,” he agrees humourlessly, “Harry does have a way of influencing the people around him.”

“Tom, did something happen between you and—”

“Do you truly believe that?” he interrupts her suddenly, looking at her as if seeing her for the first time. “What you told Malfoy?”

It is strange how a first impression of a person can turn out to be so wrong. Hermione always thought Tom to be charm personified, but this—this embittered, cynical, _cold_ young man feels so much more real than a handsome smile and a silver tongue.

Lifting her chin even under his scrutinising stare, she says, “I do.”

“Different, but equal?”

“Yes,” Hermione glances at Malfoy, who has now stood up from his seat and is heading over to the Library’s exit, shoulders not as straight as they usually are and nose not as high. “Maybe someday, in an ideal world, wizards and muggles could all live together, but that’s a very far-off future if a future at all. There’s much we could learn from each other and it just seems like such a waste never to explore that possibility.”

Tom says nothing to that, and Hermione gives him a shrewd look. “You don’t agree with me.”

“I don’t.”

“Why is that?”

He gives her no answer, instead turning his head away from her entirely before disappearing, as if he’d never been there at all.

Hermione stands there for a moment to think over the conversation when, for what is the third time that week, Viktor Krum strides into the Library and his eyes immediately flit over to her.

She flushes, turns around and pretends never to have seen him at all.

* * *

Harry does not speak to Tom again until two days after the First Task.

When in the middle of walking by himself toward the Great Hall, Draco Malfoy comes out of nowhere, shoving notes about their presentation for Ancient Runes tomorrow into his hand with a scathing remark that he’d better be prepared before stalking off just as quickly as he came.

Harry looks over the notes with a deep frown. Malfoy had written it all down in great enough detail that he’ll be able to figure out how to present his own part, though it bothers him that they wouldn’t be practising it at all together—not that he imagines it would go well, anyway.

Just as he's trying to figure out how he is supposed to learn this all by heart, a voice next to him says, “Write a summary.”

Harry would’ve jumped had he not long grown used to Tom’s sudden appearances, instead only glancing at him cautiously while tucking the notes into his bag.

After their little fall-out in Hogsmeade, Harry had been too distracted by the First Task to really think much on it, but now it was out of the way he’s more than bothered about how that conversation went down.

It raised many important questions about Tom’s nature, yes, but what sticks out to Harry the most is—

 _‘Doesn’t Tom_ trust _me_?’

And if he doesn’t trust Harry, then does Tom trust anyone at all?

“It’ll be fine,” he says quietly when he’s sure no one is looking at him, talking about the presentation. Evidently they’re supposed to skirt around the topic of Horcruxes now, and Harry still doesn't understand why. “It’s just a presentation.”

“I’m glad to see you so confident,” Tom remarks, as polite as he usually is, and it feels so completely wrong now that Harry has seen what’s brewing underneath, a thin facade so see-through now that he’s aware of its existence. How long has Tom been pretending like this?

“I’ll be going back home for Christmas,” Harry says then, and at this at least Tom does look sincere with his faintly surprised expression.

“You won’t be staying for the Yule Ball?” When Harry minutely shakes his head, he asks, “Won’t _Cedric_ be disappointed?”

Harry frowns. “Why did you say his name like that?”

“Like what?” Tom responds innocuously.

“Like you just, spat it out, or something.”

“You’re imagining things, Harry,” Tom says in an effort to placate, which only serves to frustrate him more and more.

“Of course, it’s all me, _I’m_ mad, it couldn’t possibly be that you’re hiding things from me, or—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tom dismisses, his attempt at nonchalance still retaining a sharp edge. “We’ve already gone over this.”

“No, we haven’t!”

The students around him who’d just been walking to the Great Hall nearly all stop and stare at his sudden outburst, and at least then Harry has the sense to retreat into a much calmer corridor, taking the long way around towards the Great Hall with Tom next to him.

“At Hogsmeade—” Tom begins, but Harry quickly cuts him off.

“At Hogsmeade you brushed me off like it was nothing,” he snaps underneath his breath. “We didn’t actually talk, we didn’t go over anything, you just basically _told_ me to not talk about it and that was that.”

“What else was there to talk about?” Tom hisses, his patience at an end.

“How about the fact that you don’t trust me _at all_?” Harry stops walking now to glare at Tom. “I went behind your back, and yes, that was wrong—but I’ve told you everything about my life, trusted you with anything and everything, and you couldn’t even tell me what you really were all this time! That-that you might actually end up going _insane_ , Tom! That’s what the book said, about Horcruxes!”

Tom looks at him, and for a split-second Harry sees a frustration that stems not from any disagreement with what he’s saying, but from confusion. Tom genuinely doesn’t get it, irritated by his own lack of comprehension.

“Why is this so important?” he demands to know impatiently.

It goes beyond apathy, beyond indifference, as Harry originally feared might be the case.

Tom really, _truly_ doesn’t understand, not when it comes to him, or why Harry would make such a big fuss over this.

Harry slowly opens his mouth, closes it for a while, then says with a hoarse edge to his tone, “Because I trusted you from the start, but you never trusted me.”

 _‘Because I’m worried, because I want you to be okay, because I don’t want to just_ stand there _and_ watch _while something terrible might be happening to you, don’t you understand? Don't you know how much that hurts?'_ Harry thinks frantically but doesn't add, not able to push the words out around the constricting of his throat, not knowing what to do in face of Tom’s genuine bemusement as if he’s never known things like trust and friendship.

_‘Why don’t you understand?’_

Has Tom always been like this?

“Trust has to be earned.”

Harry gives him a numb look, Tom’s expression closed off and drawn into itself, and he has no idea what that means, that trust has to be earned—aren’t they friends?

Does Tom even know what that means?

“Harry,” Cedric’s voice calls to him from the end of the corridor, the Hogwarts Champion surrounded by other Hufflepuff students, trying to wave him over. “Hey, Harry!”

Tom glances at Cedric, then looks back at Harry. “You should go,” he says, and then pauses for a moment, before adding, “Leave my diary at Hogwarts for the holidays.”

With that Tom leaves him, and Harry suddenly feels very cold.

* * *

That same night Harry has a nightmare. His scar doesn’t hurt and he doesn’t dream about tombstones and green light and an old, decrepit mansion—it’s different.

Everything is dark, and he feels his body moving against his will, his own nails ripping over the skin of his arms, as if trying to kill him, his own limbs having turned against him as if someone else is wearing them, pulling the muscles like strings.

But then a shushing sound, and the darkness doesn’t leave but it doesn’t feel as oppressive, his hands falling to his sides lifelessly, a comforting warm glow soothing over the sharp ache in his bloodied cuts.

When Harry wakes up that morning the first thing he does is check his arms, but he finds nothing.

He doesn’t notice the small drop of blood on the floor, brushing the nightmare off and beginning his usual morning routine.

* * *

Tom stares at the vial of blood between his fingers, leaning against the desk of Crouch's office.

“On Christmas Day,” the Death Eater says, and Tom’s lips almost twitch into a wry smile at the date. “He wishes to see you then.”

“Fitting,” he sneers mockingly, tucking the small vial into the pocket of his robe, ignoring the shaking in his fingers when his hand doesn’t have anything to hold onto anymore, shoving it into the pocket as well and keeping it out of Crouch’s sight. “You’ll take me to him?”

Crouch inclines his head.

_‘Please, don’t go.’_

Tom ignores the Horcrux-remnant, whose voice now sounds suspiciously like Harry’s. The trick might have done something before, might have introduced some doubt into his head if ever so slight and if only owing to their peculiar soul-bond, might have stirred him if nothing else.

But then he thinks about the way Harry only ever seems to really light up around Diggory nowadays—the way he _used to_ around Tom—and he smothers the voice and its pleas under a layer of cold apathy.

Now that he has the blood, Tom doesn’t need Harry anymore.

(And Harry doesn’t need him anymore, either.)


	25. Chapter 25

Despite the very heavy load of homework that the fourth years are given for the holidays, Harry finds himself in no mood to work when the term ends, and spends the week leading up to Christmas enjoying himself as fully as possible along with everyone else—sans a certain diary-bound soul fragment, whom Harry avoids as much as possible.

Gryffindor Tower, however, is hardly less crowded now than during term-time; it seems to have shrunk slightly too, as its inhabitants are being much rowdier than usual. Fred and George enjoy distraction in the form of inventing a new “product”, as George privately confides to Harry that he might want to be wary of any cream-related food in the last couple of days leading up to Christmas break.

Meanwhile, outside the cosy warmth of the tower the snow is falling thickly upon the castle and its grounds. The pale blue Beauxbatons carriage looks like a large, chilly, frosted pumpkin next to the iced gingerbread house that is Hagrid's cabin, while the Durmstrang ship's portholes are glazed with ice, the rigging white with frost. The house-elves down in the kitchen are outdoing themselves with a series of rich, warming stews and savoury puddings, and only Fleur Delacour seems to be able to find something to complain about.

"It is too 'eavy, all zis 'Ogwarts food," the three friends hear her saying grumpily as they leave the Great Hall behind her, the evening before they’ll all be leaving for their Christmas break. "I will not fit into my dress robes!"

"Oooh, there's a tragedy," Hermione mocks as Fleur goes out into the Entrance Hall. "She really thinks a lot of herself, that one, doesn't she?"

“Well,” Harry says, glancing over his shoulder for a moment to consider the Beauxbatons Champion. “She is very pretty.”

Hermione frowns at him in a critical sort of way that makes Harry feel at once a little uneasy. “Is she? _I_ certainly hadn’t noticed!”

“Just because I’m going out with a bloke doesn’t mean I’m suddenly blind to girls,” Harry replies a bit defensively, reading in-between the lines of Hermione’s sharp remark.

At once, Hermione’s irritated expression turns inquisitive. 

“Would you consider going out with her?” she asks. “Hypothetically speaking, I mean?”

Harry shrugs; he doesn’t really know Fleur well enough to ever seriously consider it, but assuming she has the sort of personality he might be attracted to, the idea doesn’t necessarily turn him off. She is quite beautiful, after all—not that there’s even a sliver of a chance for that now, considering how smitten he is with Cedric.

“If she’s nice, I don’t see why not.”

Hermione’s curiosity only seems to increase at that, and Harry suddenly feels much like the snake behind the glass exhibit in the zoo he visited during Dudley’s birthday four years ago.

“Does that mean you’re bisexual?”

Harry blinks. “I’m sorry, bi- _what_?”

“Bisexual!” she repeats, turning exasperated when Harry can only offer her a blank stare. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of it? I’ve been doing some reading, and—”

“Hermione, please,” Harry groans, feeling like he wants to sink through the floor. “I really don’t care.”

His protest startles her quite a bit. “Why ever wouldn’t you? Isn’t it part of your identity, or rather, something you want to explore further?”

“No,” Harry replies assertively, “it isn’t, and I don’t. I like who I like, and that’s the end of it. Call me whatever you want, it doesn’t make a difference to me.”

“By the way, Harry,” Ron says as he changes the subject before Hermione can ask another probing question that might actually turn Harry’s mild unease into severe annoyance, “how’d your Ancient Runes presentation with Malfoy go? Did you set his hair on fire?”

“It went well, actually,” Harry answers, grateful for the shift in subject and still in shock himself at how smoothly it all came together in the end, with compliments from Professor Babbling.

Granted, Malfoy spoke all but two words to him during the entire thing, but their demonstration with the flaming knife and the cup of water went almost effortlessly, and he managed to remember the key points of his exposition on Elemental Cancellation Theory, while Malfoy did his part with a minimal amount of flaws.

“I was surprised too,” Hermione adds, agreeing with the sharp, bemused arching of Ron’s eyebrows. “They hadn’t practised it at all, and Harry’s presentation was rather awkward—”

“It wasn’t _that_ bad!”

“—but the substance was right, at least. I think you’ll get a pretty high grade; no one else thought of Cancellation, since it’s a subject we’ll be introduced to in the next term.”

“What is up with Malfoy lately, anyway?” Ron mutters, voice lowering as they pass the aforementioned wealthy heir in the corridor with a few other students in-between. “He’s turned into a complete loner.”

Harry noticed this a few weeks before, as it seemed that Malfoy stopped associating with his two overgrown lackeys, but now even during classes and in the Great Hall he seems to prefer sitting and eating and studying alone, looking very much put upon whenever a fellow Slytherin tries to engage him in conversation.

As Malfoy passes them now he casts a glance in their direction, and at least has the temerity to scowl before walking on without another snide comment or mocking sneer. Harry is used to the tempered antagonism that now only flares when they are forced to acknowledge each other, but it's still a strange phenomenon to his two friends—particularly Ron, who eyes Malfoy's back in suspicion as he watches the Slytherin turn a corner.

“I suppose he must have a lot on his mind,” Hermione states smugly, causing Harry and Ron to look at her in equal parts confusion and wariness. When she doesn’t elaborate, the conversation moves on.

“Speaking of,” Ron prompts, turning back to Harry, “what’s the matter with you and Tom, lately?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, a bit too quickly and a bit too shrilly. “Why-what makes you think that?”

Ron rolls his eyes at him. “You’re an awful liar, mate; you've been avoiding each other for, what, almost three days now?”

“We just—we had a small, er, _disagreement_ ,” Harry replies, mentally patting himself on the back for coming up with the euphemism, even if neither Ron nor Hermione look to be buying into it. “It’s nothing, really.”

It’s not nothing, but it’s not something he can tell his friends about, either. As much as he wants to know what exactly Tom is—and if he’s a Horcrux, what that might mean for him—Harry has already gone behind his back to figure it out. The least he can do now is not to blab Tom’s secret to Ron and Hermione, even if a vindictive part of him considers it for a moment.

Besides, Harry can’t entirely trust that they won’t take Tom’s side in this matter anyway; he knows very well how persuasive Tom can be.

Heading upstairs for Transfiguration, the three continue chatting about the upcoming break. The moment Sirius' letter arrived the Monday morning right before the First Task (with an added hint about the Conjunctivitis Curse for Cedric and a half-teasing, half-serious _"Use protection!"_ that had Harry flushing a furious red) he already decided he was spending Christmas back at home, with Sirius and Remus.

As such he invited his friends to join him with shy enthusiasm, and both Ron and Hermione had immediately agreed. While Hermione still seems a bit torn about it—she said someone asked her to the Yule Ball and she'd hated to blow him off—Ron is still all but cheering at avoiding the anxiety of asking a girl to the dance himself.

Of course, telling Cedric was less pleasant than telling his friends and inviting them. Cedric looked understanding, but disappointed; as the Champion for Hogwarts, it is mandatory for him to attend the Yule Ball and he has no further choice in the matter. Otherwise, he assured Harry, he would've loved to spend Christmas with him as well.

"Really, I get it," he said when Harry started rambling off apologies. "I mean, I can't say that I wasn't looking forward to dancing with you, but I get it. Spending time with your family is more important than some silly school ball, especially..." He seemed to hesitate a bit, lowering his voice slightly. "Especially when you haven't had one before."

And if Harry spent the rest of his free period all but glued to Cedric's side, his chest full of warm affection, well, then that was no one's business but his own.

Recalling the conversation now, a cynical part of him can’t help but think on it with some jaded resentment—though the feeling is not at all aimed towards Cedric.

Had it been Tom he was blowing off, the silver-tongued young man would've probably found a way to talk Harry into choosing him over his family, regardless of the guilt or regret that might've caused him afterwards.

It has only made Harry all the more cautious and diligent in avoiding Tom, while further re-examining the image he has of him in his head. He has a nagging feeling that he's only scratched the very surface of all that Tom is hiding from him. It’s difficult to reconcile that very stark impression when comparing it to the more naïve portrait he’d painted of Tom in his own mind.

The more he seems to actually get to know Tom for who he _really_ is, the more guarded Harry becomes. It’s not a great basis for any kind of relationship; one of these days, either Tom will have to come clean about certain things or… or….

Does Harry have it in him, to cut Tom off completely?

When he and his friends turn the corner, Harry still deep in thought while Ron decides to unintentionally put his foot in his mouth by wondering who on _earth_ would've asked Hermione to the dance, the trio—or rather, Harry, is distracted when they pass the janitor Filch's office.

His eyes linger on the slightly opened door, peering inside to see the edge of the desk where he knows Filch keeps all the confiscated products (a majority of which, he's willing to bet, belongs to the Weasley twins). Would his book be in there, too?

He is so distracted by dreaming up a half-baked plot to steal the book back that he doesn't watch the corner of the corridor until he runs almost right into a long, silvery beard.

Ron and Hermione stand off to the side, watching him with similar expressions of empathetic mortification as Harry flinches back and feels his cheeks heat up in embarrassment, Headmaster Dumbledore seeming only slightly surprised.

"Er, sorry, Professor," Harry apologises hastily. "I didn't see you there."

"Indeed," Dumbledore says mildly. "You seemed rather fixated on the janitor's office, Harry. I hope you aren't helping Fred and George Weasley to smuggle Ton-Tongue Toffees into the school?"

Harry, if possible, can feel his face turning even redder in spite of the Headmaster's good humour. "No, sir. Just a book that got confiscated by Professor Moody."

"Oh? That must have been quite the outrageous book."

He shrugs helplessly for a moment, painfully aware of the glances and stares he's attracting from his fellow students—until it occurs to him that with Tom now absent, and Dumbledore talking to him, this might be his only chance to get more information on Horcruxes aside from stealing the book back.

"It was a book on, uh, soul-related magic that I thought looked interesting," Harry starts cautiously, heart starting to pound in his chest. "I didn't know the subject wasn't allowed on school grounds."

Dumbledore's expression remains pleasantly curious, which is only more unnerving.

"The subject itself is generally allowed, though we take great care in being selective on what books are appropriate for young students," the Headmaster explains patiently. "Soul magic is a very delicate area, one which you mustn't tread lightly."

"Right, I read as much in the book," Harry says, building his courage steadily as he talks, lowering his voice for a moment in case some passing students overhear him—though it seems unlikely. They’re given a wide berth by anyone who walks by. "It mentioned all the things that could go wrong if you messed with someone's, erm, soul too much. It also mentioned something called a Horcrux, though it didn't exactly explain what it was."

He glances up at the Headmaster's bespectacled eyes, but he receives no visible reaction at the mention of the word (that he notices), Dumbledore seeming to be calmly assessing him for a moment which does nothing for Harry's already high-strung nerves, until the Professor says evenly, "If you must know, Harry, I could expand upon the topic someplace where we don't run the risk of being eavesdropped by overly-curious students."

For a moment, Harry can't believe his luck, can't believe how utterly _easy_ it was to just ask and get a favourable answer—he was certain that he would've been completely chastised for it before asking.

(Unbeknownst to him, what Harry saw as an easy decision from his Headmaster was in fact a dozen possibilities at once considered and discarded, a hundred worried questions asked and a thousand possible answers evaluated and a single fear on the verge of being realised, balancing on a precarious precipice, held only back by hope, and a trust in the innocence and the goodness of a young boy's heart.)

"It is not a topic I would ordinarily discuss with a student, but I trust you to be sensible enough not to dabble in such Dark Arts," Dumbledore elaborates when seeing Harry's shocked expression. "I would much rather you hear it from me, than from an obscure book that might provide you with incomplete or faulty information. However, I do have one condition."

"Yes, Professor?"

And Dumbledore now leans forward slightly, to be able to look at Harry over the rim of his half-moon spectacles. "You must promise not to repeat anything to anyone—aside from the usual suspects, I imagine," he says, with a glance at Ron and Hermione.

"Of course, Professor," Harry agrees immediately, because he wasn't planning on telling anyone else to begin with, so it is a vow easily kept.

"Very well.” The Headmaster turns around—and Harry just barely misses the weary expression that flits across his face. "Follow me, then, Harry."

Harry practically bounds after the Professor, gesturing to his friends to move on without him as he eagerly follows Dumbledore to the Headmaster's office.

(And at this point he has not yet a clue of the subtle interrogation that awaits him inside.)

* * *

Draco sits quietly in a corner of the Slytherin common room, having claimed a dark green, leather sofa entirely for himself. The many green-lit torches hanging low from the ceiling cast a cold glow over the dungeon, even more so than usual—it’s not an ideal atmosphere to think in, especially since he constantly feels like he’s on the verge of shivering but not quite cold enough for it.

His gaze glides over the other occupants of the common room, all his fellow Slytherins, of course. He’s not sure how it is in other Houses, but there hasn’t been an outsider within these dungeon walls for over seven centuries. Where this had been a point of pride to him in the past, now the thought feels strangely oppressive and isolating.

It’s not as if he’s in some sort of great existential crisis, and it’s not as if his whole philosophy has been revolutionised with just some snide, sanctimonious commentary from some obnoxious know-it-all. But he doubts, and even just that little bit of doubt is enough to unsettle him.

If nothing else, Draco can at least admit to himself that he’s not so sure anymore about where he stands concerning those of lesser… of mixed blood—but other than that, not so much has changed. He still detests muggles, and maybe that scorn has even grown after actually sitting through a lecture and skimming through all those books to find how little they know and yet how much they _think_ they do. Trying to explain it all away with science, or religion, scurrying about like insects on a planet far too big for them to understand.

Granger might have made a compelling case for muggleborns and halfbloods, but Draco is entirely convinced that muggles deserve nothing but his contempt.

 _‘She’s so full of shit,’_ he thinks with a scowl when remembering his conversation with her just a week ago.

Trying to invalidate _his_ heritage, _his_ culture, and then attempting to convince him that he ought to respect muggles instead when getting none in return, that the wizarding society that they’ve spent centuries building doesn’t matter. She’s so convinced of her own objectivity, so convinced that she holds the moral high-ground just because she’s sticking up for the less fortunate, _basking_ in her own self-righteousness—it makes him fume all over again just thinking about it.

At the time, though, he wasn’t able to argue against her, not because of any persuasiveness on her end, but because something she said struck him more than anything else he learned that day.

 _“Do you really believe that, or were you_ taught _to believe that?”_

The question calls for a closer re-examination of his upbringing than he’s comfortable with.

While his feelings towards muggles haven’t changed much, he has spent the past couple of days pondering quietly on the concept of _pure blood_ , and finds himself asking a great deal of things that are rather unpleasant to think about.

For one, if pure blood is really so superior, if it really is the most valuable thing to have in today’s society, how does that explain a halfblood defeating The Dark Lord, a supposed pureblood? How does that explain Granger, a muggleborn, being superior (and he admits this very grudgingly) to almost everyone in their year? Why isn’t Weasley the most skilled wizard out of the three of them?

It’s a frustrating conundrum, especially when he realises that he’s never actually seen any _proof_ for it. Of course his parents have told him this ever since he was a small child, and for a very long time the wealth and influence his family possessed equated with being pureblood in his mind.

But if he thinks about it, _really_ thinks about it for the first time in his life and doesn’t just swallow what his parents have always told him, then the only reason that this is the case at all is because wizards and witches just collectively decided several centuries ago that it was better, in spite of being pureblood not having any evidence of ensuring any greater magical ability than your average muggleborn.

Draco lets out an annoyed huff, shifting slightly on the couch as he crosses his arms over his chest and glares at a small group of first years walking by, glancing curiously at him but quickly walking on when they notice his scowl.

He’s angry that he even has to think about it, that he has to question it at all. He was doing perfectly fine the way he was before, before all these doubts started to set in. In actuality it really wouldn’t be so shocking a change, for him to adjust his views on halfbloods and muggleborns—it’s not as if he doesn’t still abhor any non-human magical creatures and turned into some muggle-loving lunatic like Granger.

 _‘Then again,’_ Draco thinks with a snort, _‘I’ve never been a fan of animals to begin with.’_

He lingers in the common room for a while longer, wondering how on earth he’s supposed to ask out a girl from Slytherin for the Yule Ball when just being around people he would’ve once called his friends tends to completely drain him of his patience lately. As much as he despises Granger, at least she’s not a sycophant, and as much as just _seeing_ Potter walk in the corridor irritates him, at least he provides a challenge. The more Draco has interacted with them in a non-hostile manner, the more he’s lost his tolerance for the mindlessness within Slytherin.

Asking a girl from another House is out of the question—and he wonders at that for a moment, _why_ that it’s out of the question, when he realizes that he doesn’t actually know any girls outside of his House aside from Granger. He knows names, certainly, but he’s never bothered interacting with them before.

Looking up, Draco notices that the common room seems to be entirely empty, save for him—and another boy, standing in front of the windows looking out into the Great Lake. It’s almost impossible to see anything in during night-time, but the boy doesn’t seem to really be looking, anyway. Draco has to crane his neck to look at him; he seems like an older student, with how tall he is.

As if having sensed Draco staring at him, the young man turns to glance at him, and appears somewhat surprised, eyebrows arching slightly.

Draco doesn’t look away, not recognising the student, which is odd—Slytherin being as tightly-knit as it is, everyone knows everyone else here. Not to mention that with him being a Malfoy, he would’ve expected to have already met all the older students already.

Getting up from the sofa, Draco gives the young man a quick once-over, and notices there’s something off with his robes. No hood, the crest knit into the front of his robe slightly… well, old-fashioned.

“Who are you?” Draco asks suspiciously, taking a few slow steps to approach the unfamiliar student, who’s looking back with a slight frown, appearing almost disturbed.

“Strange,” he says softly, and Draco knows he’s definitely never heard _that_ voice before. “I should’ve noticed you sitting there.”

Draco doesn’t respond to that, standing still just a meter or two away from the stranger and only then noticing the odd, semi-translucence of his pale skin, the green light falling through it. It is so subtle that he doesn’t think he would've noticed it if it wasn’t for the dungeon’s lamps.

“Are you a ghost?” he inquires curiously, and the student’s lips quirk for a moment in a near smile that for some reason feels a little mocking.

“In a manner of speaking,” the young man says.

Draco gives him a sceptical look. “Then how come I’ve never seen you around before?”

The ghost turns away from him, staring back out through the glass and into the water. “Usually I take great care in not being seen.”

“But not tonight?”

The ghost doesn’t reply, hands in his pockets and his gaze fixed on some invisible point in space. Draco frowns, not taking well to being ignored.

“So, what, you’re just going to stand there all night?” he sneers.

“I’ve a lot to think about, and I came here for some peace and quiet,” the ghost says without looking away from some impossible horizon in his mind that he’s gazing over—his father is the same way, whenever he gets that faraway look in his eyes and dismisses Draco with an apathetic comment, preferring to brood in silence or whatever it is he does.

“Hmph,” Draco turns his nose up at the response. “Well, _I’ve_ done enough thinking for a lifetime. Thinking too much doesn’t help anyone, either.”

“Too much?” the ghost repeats, now looking at Draco as if he’s introduced an entirely alien concept.

“When you can’t find an answer to a problem on your own there’s no point thinking about it,” Draco replies matter-of-factly. How dense is this ghost? This should have been common sense. “Why don’t you just go do something instead? Haunt the bathrooms, or whatever it is ghosts do?”

The ghost gives him a strange look, then says, “Perhaps when your mental capacity is as limited as it is, I suppose the simple act of thinking _would_ seem pointless.”

Draco sputters indignantly at the insult—did this ghost just call him stupid?

“Excuse me,” he snaps. “Do you have _any_ idea who I am?”

The young man smiles derisively. “Do you have any idea who _I_ am?” And then, as if having realised what he’s just said, the smile on the ghost’s face falters a moment later, straining at the corners.

Draco would’ve been more curious about what it meant if he hadn’t been too busy being outraged at the ghost’s snide reply.

“No, I don’t,” Draco retorts angrily. “I have no bloody idea who you are, nor do I care.”

“I thought as much.”  

Before he can react, the ghost’s hand quickly reaches over, touching on his forehead and a moment later his mind becomes devoid of thought or feeling as the young man sifts through his memories, erasing the past three minutes from his mind entirely.

“You’re not the only one who doesn’t know,” the ghost says to Draco, and somewhere in the back of his mind his subconscious catches it, that oddly quiet confession, but it flits away again a moment later as the ghost pulls that memory out of his mind as well, letting it drift away into nothing.

When the ghost then pulls his hand away his translucent form disappears into thin air, and Draco’s glazed over eyes sharpen into clarity a moment later. He looks around in confusion at his “new” position in the dungeon, and wonders when he stood up from the sofa and walked over to the glass walls.

Behind him, a ghost slips out of the common room.

* * *

"Take a seat, Harry," Professor Dumbledore says as he moves towards his desk at a leisurely pace, while Harry takes a moment to look around the grand office before approaching the chair in front of him.

As expected, the large, circular room looks as interesting as ever. It's filled with curious noises of tinkering and clicking, most of which Harry imagines are due to the strange little silver contraptions whirring and spinning on various spindle-legged tables. Portraits of past Headmasters and Headmistresses line the walls, all of whom are snoozing gently in their frames and seeming unaware of their most recent visitor. There's a pensieve sitting on the left of Dumbledore's desk, something Harry had noticed but had not recognized when he'd visited here in his first year.

Fawkes—sitting contentedly on the perch near the door—greets him with a soft musical note as Harry wanders further into the office, finally taking a seat in front of the Headmaster's desk, next to a small round table holding a bowl of sherbet lemons.

Looking across the large, mahogany desk to Dumbledore, Harry feels oddly at ease in spite of the nearly intimidating size of the room he's in. He's still anxious, of course, but not for himself. The answers he's about to receive in the office might very well change everything, and he's not so sure that he's ready, but he won't find another opportunity like this anytime soon.

"Well then," the Headmaster begins with pleasant cheer, as if they're only in his office to chat about the weather and not incredibly dangerous magic. "Let me begin by asking you a question first, out of curiosity—whatever made you gravitate towards the area of soul magic?"

Harry avoids the direct gaze aimed at him, knowing that a better liar might've held it and played much better at innocent pretence (but not knowing that avoiding this eye-contact might just work greatly in his advantage).

 _'The best lies,'_ he remembers Tom telling him during one of their many afternoons of studying, _'are often sprinkled with kernels of truth.'_

In hindsight this should've been a red flag for Harry on Tom's truthfulness, but at the time he just imagined it being a useful tip should he ever find himself interrogated by a teacher for not doing his homework, or something equally innocuous. The whole prompting for that spontaneous lesson in lying had been Snape catching him in forgetting to bring his Potions textbook to class.

Harry thought, at the time, that Tom was just very experienced in deceiving his teachers during those instances and was passing on the advice to him—not that he was actually some sort of masterful actor, hiding far more than Harry would've ever expected.

"I was... I was just wondering, for someone close to me," he says carefully, unable to look at the piercing blue stare that seems to prick him with guilt whenever he so much as glances anywhere near it. "I wanted to know if their soul could be, um, damaged, and-and how to fix it, if it's fixable at all."

"Ah, an unfortunate circumstance," Dumbledore says gravely, folding his hands on top of his desk. “I understand.”

Harry almost wants to open his mouth and fumble out another explanation, wants to elaborate on the answer he already gave, when Tom whispers to him again through a memory: _'Never offer more information than asked—let them form their own conclusions.'_

He keeps his mouth shut, and stares at his knees.

"Would I be wrong in supposing," the Professor continues quietly, "that you might be worried about Sirius?"

It’s a split-second of shock, of horrible, _terrible_ guilt—but above all, of sheer relief. Harry’s fists tighten into the fabric of his trousers as he glances up at his Headmaster, and rather than nodding or just saying yes, which may have provided some alleviation to his already heavy conscience that he just _went along_ with it, he actively expands upon the lie. It’s just such a perfect excuse—he never even considered the possibility before, having always assumed Sirius’ problems to be emotional, to be a trauma only affecting the mind, but it makes sense.

“You saw him, at the trial,” Harry says slowly, looking away again under the hefty weight of Dumbledore’s gaze. “He just… he just lost it a little. He seems okay in the letters he writes, but when I talked to his Healer, she said he might not ever fully recover.”

Now he considers it more carefully, it only seems obvious that his godfather’s soul would’ve been just as damaged as his psyche. The whole purpose of a dementor's existence is to suck out _souls_ —enduring twelve years of it wouldn't have let anyone get away unscathed.

While it is just the thing Harry needed, he feels himself flying into genuine alarm as he thinks about it, and suddenly the lie isn’t so much a lie anymore. Where he initially only worried about his friend, now he finds himself just as concerned for his only family; what if Sirius’ soul isn't just damaged, but fractured? Can dementors do that? Would an extended period of exposure to them be able to affect someone so severely that their soul just… just breaks?

“Can souls heal?” he asks before he can help himself. “Or, I don’t know, grow back?”

When he looks up at Dumbledore again, he almost flinches at the kind eyes gazing at him from over the rim of half-moon glasses. It is a look meant to be reassuring, but only weighs all the heavier on Harry’s conscience for that very reason.

“Souls can be surprisingly resilient, if nurtured the right way,” the Professor explains. “Almost no amount of damage is irreversible, but it does take time, Harry.”

Harry frowns slightly. “Nurtured, sir? Do you mean with magic?”

“Nothing so concrete,” Dumbledore answers patiently. “If it is despair that has poisoned one’s soul, it would follow that hope would be the antidote.”

“Hope?” Harry isn’t sure he understands. This is much different from the tangible concepts Tom has always taught him, based on logic and reason rather than feeling. He wouldn’t know where to begin, how to offer hope. He has never been good with the emotional aspect of things.

“By being there for him, by offering love and compassion and understanding, by the simple virtue of being family, I think you will find that Sirius will recover far more quickly than imagined,” Dumbledore says, clearly wanting to offer him comfort, and while it _is_ comforting, it doesn’t much address Harry’s original purpose for being here.

“That-that’s good, then,” he says with a nod, wondering how to best breach the topic. “You said no amount of damage was irreversible?”

“Ah,” Dumbledore seems to have caught on immediately, nodding gravely. “There are some exceptions. A Horcrux would be one of those.”

It feels as if his heart is sinking into his stomach, Harry trying desperately not to show the dread digging its claws into his gut. “But… what _is_ a Horcrux exactly, Professor? The book never made that very clear. Why would anyone ever intentionally split their soul?”

The twinkle dancing in the eyes of the Headmaster that had all but disappeared at the change in topic is now entirely replaced by a look so solemn, that the man who never really seemed so old before now looks as if he’s fought through several centuries of time trickling by.

He looks weary.

“A Horcrux is an anchor,” Dumbledore eventually says after a moment of silence. “Even when the creator’s body is destroyed a Horcrux will ensure a tie to the world of the living, for as long as it is not destroyed as well, effectively allowing the creator to acquire a new body and return to life once more. The origins of this ritual remain unclear, but I believe it is safe to say that it was created as a means to realise a form of immortality.”

Harry stares blankly at his knees.

Immortality?

Could it be… was Tom trying to become immortal, all those decades ago?

 _Is his creator_ _still alive?_

“How…” Harry’s voice comes out hoarse, and he clears his throat before continuing. “What would a Horcrux even look like?”

“You must first understand that a Horcrux, in essence, is a piece of someone’s soul, bound and stored into an object. It could be anything, ranging from a sword to a pen.”

Or a diary.

Tom is a Horcrux—and his creator is out there, somewhere, living off his supposed immortality while this shard of his soul is with Harry.

“But isn’t that bad?” Harry asks carefully, anxiety swirling in his chest, trying to keep a tight grip on his emotions, trying to keep his composure. “Splitting your soul like that?”

“It certainly comes at a great cost,” Dumbledore answers. “Losing a part of your soul means losing a part of yourself—you would become unbalanced, both in mind and heart.”

“And the damage is irreversible?”

“There is only one way I’m aware of to reconcile a Horcrux with its original, in order to heal the soul,” Dumbledore continues. “A feeling of true regret, as the creation of a Horcrux is a horrible process and, as far as I am aware, the main prerequisite for it is the taking of another’s life.”

Harry could not think of a single thing to say, looking up at Dumbledore but remaining otherwise petrified in his seat, as if having just witnessed his worst fear come to life.

Tom’s original committed murder to create him.

 _Tom_ committed murder.

It is so unbelievable a fact that Harry can hardly bring himself to comprehend it, his brain refusing to register it, unable to cope when Tom has only ever been a dear friend to him, only ever helped him, supported him, comforted him—but that’s not the whole of it, is it?

Tom has manipulated him, manipulated his friends, lied to him, deceived him, and now Harry is in his Headmaster’s office, in front of the wizard he admires the most out of anyone in the world and is _lying to his face_ , all for a friend who doesn’t really deserve it.

What has Tom turned him into?

What has he _done_?

“I understand,” he says, feeling mercifully numb. “Thank you for taking the time to explain it to me, sir. I think… I think Sirius will be alright.”

Dumbledore looks at him in concern; Harry doesn’t notice, getting up from his chair.

“Is there something you’d like to tell me, Harry?” Dumbledore asks then, before Harry can take his leave.

He doesn’t look his Professor in the eye when he answers.

“No.” Harry smiles feebly. “There’s nothing.”

* * *

When Harry returns to his dorms and looks into his trunk, a day before he’s scheduled to take the Hogwarts express back to London, he sinks onto his bed and for the first time in a long while, he feels like screaming.

Tom’s diary is gone.


	26. Chapter 26

Tom lingers in front of the frost-bitten windows of an old classroom that looks out over the white grounds below, gazing down at two boys standing in front of the entrance to Hogwarts, saying their goodbyes to each other. Snow is falling down in sprinkles of dust, a harsh wind sweeping it through the winter-chilled air—Tom imagines it’s the type of weather that would freeze anyone to the bone, and yet the couple down below looks strangely warm.

It’s an image he has seen many times before when he was still a student at Hogwarts. It always struck him as a rather alien thing; the hugs and the kisses and the sad, longing smiles, as if they’d already started missing each other before they’d parted. It often felt as if he were an outsider, peering at a facet of humanity he had never seen nor known before, something small and fleeting that should be wholly insignificant and yet carried a bizarre strength he would never understand.

He often regarded these moments with indifference, dismissing them as irrelevant and ultimately trivial, and yet, now that it’s Harry who is holding another’s hand and being showered with affection, something feels different.

The cold doesn’t breach the classroom he’s in, which is large and mostly unused save for music lessons. The glass of the windows feels more like a wall than it does protection, icy against his touch, and for a frail moment he stares down at the intertwined fingers of two people in love even in spite of the sharp wind and in spite of the icy snow and wonders what that kind of warmth feels like.

It’s unsettling in a manner that he’s seldom experienced in his life; he never bothered to ask the question before, so why now? What has changed? What _is_ changing?

 _‘Would you like my advice?’_ the Horcrux-remnant inside his mind says, but rather than get annoyed, rather than try and ignore him, Tom now turns to the presence inside his mind, focusing his attention on it instead of dismissing it out of hand, probing it.

He’s never bothered to do so before, never tried actually _feeling it out_ , so to speak, but at his core Tom is still a Horcrux and is far more adept at managing his own inner workings than your average person.

Prodding at it, where it sits in a corner of his mind, he finds to his surprise that it… it feels warm.

 _‘Ah, finally figured me out, have you?’_ the remnant mocks him with some wryness, and Tom ignores it, too fascinated with the foreign feeling to care.

“What are you?”

The remnant sounds surprised when it replies, but in truth all Tom can feel from it is amusement. _‘I thought you already knew?’_

“I meant,” Tom clarifies with some annoyance, “what are you _made_ of? You don’t feel like a Horcrux should, not entirely.”

 _‘Bits and pieces, here and there,’_ the remnant muses. _‘The soul is far more pliable than you might guess. What else do you suppose would happen when two souls meet and cling together for fourteen years?’_

“Bits and pieces?” Tom repeats slowly as he watches Diggory wrap his scarf around Harry, a deep furrow appearing between his brows. “From Voldemort and from Harry, I take it?”

_‘Indeed.’_

“But _which_ bits and pieces?” he asks impatiently. “What did you take from Harry?”

The remnant is quiet for a moment. _‘What do I feel like to you?’_

“Different,” Tom replies. “Warmer, more… something.” It’s extraordinarily frustrating, he discovers, not being able to formulate his feelings into words. He’s never had this problem before.

He thinks about the matter a bit longer, prods at the remnant some more, and eventually decides, saying, “You feel more alive, more vibrant somehow. I’ve never felt something like this before, even while I was still whole.”

 _‘Rather pleasant, isn’t it?’_ the remnant says in a tone that makes Tom think he’s being made fun of.

“I suppose,” he agrees warily, and the remnant laughs inside his head, as if it has just won a game that Tom wasn’t even aware that they were playing.

_‘Glad you think so!’_

Tom thinks he might’ve possibly liked the remnant better when it was still pretending to be Dumbledore. Which part of Voldemort’s personality this particular Horcrux is from, he will likely never guess.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Tom says irritably, growing all the more aggravated the more the interaction goes on. “Why are you still here in the first place? When I reconciled you—”

 _‘Reconciled me?’_ the remnant sounds puzzled, and yet somehow still derisive, as if speaking down to a child. It’s infuriating. _‘Whenever did you do that?’_

Now it’s Tom’s turn to experience some bemusement, and his is entirely genuine. “You know exactly when.”

 _‘I assure you, my dearest Tom,’_ the remnant says once more in that mocking tone, _‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you could be referring to. You might have_ absorbed _me and my less pleasant counterpart from young Harry, but you never reconciled us. If you had, then we wouldn’t exist anymore.’_

“So you’re saying,” Tom says slowly, with a white-knuckled grip on the window ledge, “that I’m stuck with you in my head, indefinitely?”

_‘Until you regret the deeds that had a part in creating us, yes, quite so.’_

“Regret,” Tom scoffs. “I’ve nothing to regret.”

The remnant sounds and feels melancholy when it replies. _‘Soon, you will.’_

Tom says nothing in reply, and watches Harry balance on the tips of his toes to reach up and kiss Diggory, before finally being pulled away from him by Hermione, who tugs him towards Weasley waiting for them further along the path towards the train station.

Watching them trudge through the snow with their trunks floating behind them, when they start walking around the castle towards the train station and disappear from sight, Tom suddenly feels cold.

* * *

“But who could’ve possibly taken him?” Hermione asks for the third time in ten minutes, a deep wrinkle between her brows as she stares at Harry who has tucked himself into a corner of the train compartment, next to the windows. “We’re the only ones who know about the diary, so who—”

“I don’t know,” Harry interrupts gruffly, arms crossed and his gaze firmly fixed onto the fog-covered windows, the thin condensation partially obscuring the wintry landscape outside.

“Do you think he could’ve moved it himself?”

“Maybe.”

“Where do you think—”

“I don’t know!”

Ron glances uncomfortably between his two friends, seated next to Hermione to give Harry his space. His friend has been stuck in a rather ugly mood the entire day, and Hermione’s nearly incessant grilling on the mystery of the diary’s disappearance hasn’t helped.

She’s not doing it consciously—she just can’t help but try and figure it out, unknowingly picking at still-bleeding wounds in her search for the truth. That’s just what Hermione _does_ , but it’s not what Harry needs right now.

“Not much we can do about it at this point,” Ron says during the tense silence that follows while Hermione’s frown deepens as she observes Harry, who has been avoiding looking at anyone for the past half hour. “We’ll figure it out once we get back to Hogwarts, yeah?”

He shoots a pointed look at Hermione, whose gaze softens slightly in understanding as she sighs and leans back into her seat, seemingly done with the interrogation. Harry glances at him, giving him a slight nod but not visibly relaxing otherwise.

The grating of the train’s wheels is the only sound inside the small compartment for a while, the little vibrations from the screeching metal when the train makes a somewhat sharp turn to the left distracting from the uneasy atmosphere.

Ron has to admit that being left completely in the dark in regards to what the bloody hell has happened between Tom and Harry isn’t the best feeling in the world. He can understand Hermione’s irritation on that end as well—it used to be that the three of them never had any secrets between them. It was an unspoken rule that they’d share whatever burdens weighing down on one of them with the others, and it was a given that whatever problems came their way they’d always face them together, which makes Harry’s sudden distance and tight-lipped silence rather jarring.

“How long till we’re there, Hermione?” Ron asks after a few more minutes, not being able to stand the quiet any longer.

“At least four more hours,” she replies, and Ron has to suppress the groan rising up in his throat; four more hours of _this_ is going to drive him mad.

He looks over at Harry, who has barely moved a muscle save for his head that’s now leaning against the window. It’s not like him to be so reserved towards the two of them, to pull back like this and give them nothing but a steel wall in return. Ron has never seen him like this before, he doesn’t think, and it’s worrying to say the least.

“Harry?” he asks cautiously, half-expecting Harry to bite his head off or something, but instead his best friend just shifts his wary gaze from the window to look at Ron. “Whatever it is that’s happened, you know you can tell us, right? We’re not going to judge, and Hermione might be really annoying right now but she’s just asking because she cares. Maybe we could even… I don’t know, help in some way?”

Harry stares at him for a moment, and an expression of guilt flickers across his face as he uncrosses his arms, taking a slightly more relaxed and open pose, though the tension in his shoulders remains.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I know I’m being silly, it’s just… I’ve got a lot to think about. I don’t really see how you guys could help, but not telling you anything isn’t doing any good either, so... well….”

Ron and Hermione exchange similarly curious looks, before turning all their attention to Harry, waiting for him to speak.

And speak he does.

By the end of the story Harry’s voice is scratchy with how long he’s been talking and he looks utterly exhausted, while Ron stares at his friend in blank astonishment and Hermione…

Well, Hermione is red in the face.

“I can’t _believe_ how utterly stupid—!”

It’s unclear who she’s angry at, but her outburst startles both boys all the same, Ron subtly scooting a bit away from her. She’s glaring at her own knees, but that doesn’t make her any less scary.

“I can’t believe how wrong I was about him,” she says with mild abhorrence, likely towards both Tom as well as her own shortcomings. “I thought he had to be hiding something… and you knew all the way back in third year, didn’t you? What he really was? When you asked me for help in the library, searching for something on soul magic—”

Harry nods almost imperceptibly. “Yeah, I did. I just had no idea that he was created by some sort of terrible, dark ritual at the time.”

“And you’re sure that the blood magic won’t work anymore?” Hermione asks with a worried frown.

“Even if it were he hasn’t used it again for a while now,” Harry replies. “Otherwise I’d feel it. I could always sense a slight pull in the back of my head whenever he drained magic from me.”

“There’s another thing bothering me.” Hermione looks uncomfortable as she says this, a little bit uncertain. “About one of those memories he showed you, the one where he was duelling—are you _certain_ you can’t remember the spell he used before the memory cut off?”

Harry nods again. “It was a long time ago; I don’t remember the specifics. Why?”

“It just seems odd,” Hermione explains. “You can clearly describe everything you saw, including some of the spells his opponent used, but you can’t remember the _single_ spell Tom cast verbally?”

“What, you think he altered my memory?” Harry scoffs, but when Hermione’s concerned look doesn’t change the colour leaves his face as he sputters a weak rebuke. “Hermione—don’t be ridiculous, he wouldn’t…”

Ron, who has been looking rather pale and feeling somewhat nauseous himself, interrupts. “Harry, he murdered someone. He actually went and _murdered_ someone. What would be so weird about him tweaking your memory?”

“What if he used a Forbidden Curse?” Hermione added. “Do you think it so strange that he’d not want you to remember that part?”

“Okay, now you’re seriously reaching—”

“If I’d told you Tom was a piece of a soul created through murder two weeks ago you’d say I was reaching too!” Hermione snapped.

A heavy silence falls in the compartment then. Harry told them everything that he’d kept quiet about Tom before; the blood magic that had allowed him to gain more strength by sapping it from Harry, the memories Tom had showed him, the way he tried getting Harry completely under his thumb by taking advantage of his feelings for him, the fact that he was a Horcrux and what Dumbledore had explained it meant.

It just seems so unbelievable. Ron would’ve _never_ pegged Tom for a murderer—then again, he would’ve never pegged his pet rat as a middle-aged man who betrayed his best friend’s parents and caused their deaths, and yet here they are. It feels like a terrible repeat of last year.

He glances at Hermione from beside him, getting a bit nervous. She’s clearly aggravated for having missed all of this, for not having been the one to figure it out first instead of Harry—it’s a slight to her pride, and she’s not coping well with it.

Meanwhile, Harry looks as pale as a sheet. He seems to be still processing everything he’s learned so far, stuck in between denial and shock and a horrified sort of acceptance.

“Well, now I think about it,” Ron then says slowly. “Is it—does it still count if the, um, original was the one doing the murdering?”

“He’d still have to have some memory of doing it, wouldn’t he?” Hermione points out with a frown. “And even if he didn’t, I wouldn’t trust anyone or anything that was created through murder. Sacrificial magic rarely means anything good.”

“But what do we _do_?” Ron looks from Hermione to Harry. “We can’t just let a murderous soul-person wander around free and let him do whatever! I know he was our friend and all, but….”

“Harry, you have to tell Dumbledore,” Hermione says when Ron trails off awkwardly, looking him straight in the eyes. Harry is quick to avert his gaze. “I know you really liked him, but all he’s done is lie to you and try to use you as well as us for whatever scheme he’s spinning right now. Dumbledore _has_ to know, especially if Tom is still just roaming around Hogwarts.”

“I know that,” Harry murmurs, shoulders seeming to shrink in on himself and suddenly appearing rather small on the compartment bench all alone. “But I just want to talk to him so he can explain—”

“Why give him a chance at all?” Hermione cuts him off with some confusion and frustration. “He’s done nothing but lie to you this entire time!”

“Because he _owes me a bloody explanation_!” Harry erupts suddenly, his voice booming through the small compartment as if a bomb gone off, face turning red in anger, and resentment. “This isn’t about giving him a chance or defending him, Hermione, that ship has already sailed and crashed into a rock and sunk like the bloody Titanic—he OWES ME. I’m tired of being kept in the dark, alright? I deserve to hear the truth for once!”

Hermione looks startled at the heated reaction, and Ron can’t say he isn’t caught off guard either, though he understands Harry’s rage much better. In a weird, horrible sort of way he was betrayed by his own pet-rat, and after the initial shock had worn off he himself had been filled with a good amount of disgust and anger. It’s a very bizarre thing to compare, since Tom manipulated them and used them in ways Scabbers the rat never could, but it's a comparable sort of betrayal in a way.

“Look, let’s just tell Dumbledore,” he says when neither Hermione nor Harry continue their conversation. “Clearly we’re in over our heads, right? I mean, Dumbledore would know what to do. You trust him, don’t you, Harry?”

Harry’s shoulders slump slightly in defeat and he still looks to be fuming, but he seems to have come to accept that telling an adult is probably the best thing to do in a situation like this. Even if they fancy themselves adventurers, they’re still just fourteen years old, and while Ron is often annoyed at Hermione’s worry-wart tendencies, sometimes he thinks she even might not be worried _enough_ with the trouble they get into on a regular basis.

Not that he’d ever admit that, of course. He has his pride as a man to think of, after all! Men don’t just go around admitting they’re actually concerned, and have _feelings_ and such.

All that aside, though, warning an adult really is the best plan.

“Yeah, alright,” Harry eventually says with a tired sigh. “I’ll tell Dumbledore.”

* * *

_'Do you ever wonder how your life might have turned out, had your mother not left you at the orphanage and died?’_

“No, of course not.”

_‘It might’ve been a better life. You could’ve turned out to be an entirely different person altogether.’_

“It doesn’t matter; I am who I am. Thinking about what-ifs won’t change the past.”

_‘Do you hate her, for dying so easily?’_

* * *

When Harry sees the huge grin on his godfather’s face when he meets him on the doorway to the penthouse, briefly he thinks he might be alright after all.

“Harry!” Sirius wastes no time to envelop him in a great big hug, and Harry can’t help but notice how much healthier he’s gotten.

He has more meat on his bones, for one, and the gauntness in his face has mostly receded, leaving only what Harry suspects to be natural. The dark spots under his eyes, which now shine with mirth, have all but disappeared. As far as appearances go, there is no trace of the tortured man Harry met several months ago.

“Sirius,” Harry greets with a genuine smile, for a moment all his anger and anguish over Tom forgotten in the face of pure happiness. “You look a lot better.”

“Yes, well, the shrink has been rather severe on me,” Sirius says jovially before turning to Harry’s friends, standing behind him. “Hermione, Ron, good to see you two as well.”

“Hi,” Ron replies with a slightly awkward wave of his hand.

“Hello, Sirius. You look great, really much…” Hermione trails off mid-sentence when something behind him catches her attention and her eyes go wide. “Is that an enchanted _ceiling_?”

Remus pops up from the left of Sirius, sleeves rolled up and wand out. “Quite—it took me some effort, mind you,” he says wryly. “Hello again, my most favourite students.”

“Well, don’t just stand there!” Sirius exclaims before anyone can reply properly, clasping Harry by the shoulder and already guiding him inside. “Come on in, observe the magnificent ceiling from up-close!”

He gestures grandly to the winding circular staircase, the space in the middle of it snowing, some of the flakes landing on the wooden railing, though all of it seems to disappear before it has a chance to melt or reach the floor, much like the enchanted ceiling in Hogwarts but confined only to the stairs.

The rest of the penthouse is similarly decorated with magic. The star on top of the otherwise traditionally decorated Christmas tree in the corner of the living room is floating on top of it rather than stuck to the top branch, giving off not just light but also a glow of warmth. There are various scented candles floating about the room, though yet unlit, which Harry suspects is to save them for Christmas night, and a box of unopened chocolate frogs sitting on the coffee table, stirring slightly every now and then.

The windows in particular, however, are absolutely breath-taking, and the trio has to double-check several times to make sure they aren’t hallucinating.

Harry can only tell the difference because one of the windows remains the same and offers the standard view of London’s skyline, but the rest appears enchanted to reflect a wintry forest, with snow-covered meadows and pine-trees reaching for as far as the eye can see.

Needless to say, Hermione has all but forgotten the enchanted ceiling and is staring in awe at the windows, asking Remus how on earth he’d managed that.

“It was a bit irritating trying to puzzle out how it worked,” the former teacher says. “It’s the same spell used in Hogwarts to bewitch the ceiling so it reflects the sky outside, and I made the apparently common mistake in over-specifying the location I wanted it to reflect in the spell itself. In the end all I had to translate was _‘winter forest’_. I suspect it works best when you keep it as vague as possible.”

Ron, on the other hand, already curiously approached the box of chocolate frogs and is in the midst of opening it at Sirius’ invitation when a stray chocolate frog that escaped its packaging somehow shoots out of the box and is almost immediately chased under the couch by Crookshanks, Ron cussing up a storm at both the cat and the frog.

Harry stares and takes it all in for a while, feeling a familiar burn in his nose and a lump in his throat, which doesn’t get better when Sirius sees his expression, smiles warmly, and says:

“Welcome home, Harry.”

* * *

“I don’t hate her. That would be a waste of my time.”

_‘Is that really the reason, or is it because you’ve never actually felt hate before?’_

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’ve felt hate before.”

_‘Have you, truly?’_

“What are you trying to say?”

_‘I don’t think someone who has never felt love could ever truly feel hate. It’s a sad state to be in, to only ever feel contentment or disgust, like a life half-lived. Doesn’t it make you feel empty inside, knowing you’ve never truly been alive?’_

* * *

“First of all,” Hermione yells over the pouring rain, the three of them stuck underneath the slim overhang of a small store, barely anyone else out on the streets but the cars rushing by, splashing water all over the pavement. “Wizard music is absolute rubbish, and second of all—”

“Take that back!” Ron shouts back with a scowl.

“Second of all!” Hermione continues even louder. “Radiohead—”

“Oh piss off!”

“ _Pablo Honey_ is the best debut album I ever—”

“Your taste in music is garbage.”

“As if you know anything about music!” Hermione sneers derisively. “You listen to Nimbus 5, who completely ripped off Queen, by the way—”

“No, they didn’t!” Ron protests, completely indignant. “They perform on brooms! _Brooms_! Did Queen perform on brooms, huh? Did they?”

“That doesn’t change the fact that all of your _hip_ wizard music is a complete rip-off from muggle music,” Hermione replies. “Actually, since you mention brooms, that Nimbus 5 song _I’m in Love with My Broom_ is such a blatant copy—”

“Guys,” Harry interrupts with some distress when he realises the small overhang isn’t really providing any more cover for the rain anymore that’s being pelted into them by a heavy wind. “I think we should just make a run for it.”

The store that provides their small cover isn’t an option to hide in, since it’s quite late in the evening and already closed down. They spent the entire day out in the city, showing Ron around and exploring for themselves and lost track of time, ultimately getting caught in the awful weather. Figures that it would be rain instead of snow. The penthouse is right around the corner, but they won’t make it that far without being absolutely soaked.

“Alright, fine,” Hermione decides. “On the count of three, alright? One, two—RON! Harry! Oh, you unbelievable—!”

Ron already started running, Harry right behind him, Hermione shrieking after them and trying to catch up. By the time they get inside the safety of the tall flat they’re dripping wet all over the neatly tiles floors, stumbling into the elevator.

It’s nice, Harry thinks. His entire vacation so far has been incredibly nice. It would’ve been nicer had he not been stuck with this dark cloud hanging over his head, constantly reminding him of the fact that one of his closest friendships is in shambles, possibly even irreparably damaged at this point, and that there’s nothing he can do about it.

Still, in the company of his family and his friends, Harry decided early on he wouldn’t squander his time brooding over someone who hardly deserved it. He’ll find a way to get answers one way or another, but that’s something for _after_ Christmas break.

“Do _any_ of you actually own a watch?” Remus looks entirely disapproving when the three friends come in a quarter past eleven, though with a wave of his wand they all quickly find themselves dry again.

“Sorry, got caught up in the weather,” Harry mutters apologetically while taking off his jacket—new and denim, which he bought just yesterday with Hermione’s advice (and Ron’s groans; he absolutely hates shopping with a passion).

“Don’t be such a mother-hen, Remus,” Sirius says from his spot on the couch, seeming to be reading a letter, when a moment later he perks up. “Well, looks like we’ll be having a bunch of visitors come Christmas eve.”

“Who?”

“The entire Weasley family and a few friends—twenty people or so in total, I’d say. All in all, it should make for a good party.”

Harry blinks, astonished at the apparent giant leaps in progress Sirius’ social life has made. “What—you’re serious?”

“Yes, that’s my name,” Sirius says smartly, looking entirely too pleased with himself and while Ron, Harry and Hermione are quick to snicker at the joke, Remus lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“See if you’re still laughing at it when you have to live with that for a few months,” he warns them soberly.

“But, hey, this is great!” Ron turns to his two friends. “We can all have Christmas together!” His enthusiasm dims a little when he glances at Hermione. “Er, wish we could’ve invited your parents too, Hermione.”

“That’s alright,” Hermione replies, unbothered. “Christmas with my family is a pretty dull affair, really, and I don’t think they could handle this much magic in one evening. But how is that all going to fit? This place might have a lot of floors, but it’s not particularly wide.”

“Room-expanding charm,” Sirius replies nonchalantly, having already moved on to reading another letter while Remus has disappeared into the kitchen.

Hermione’s eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. “You know how to do that? Please show me when you do it!”

“Sure,” Sirius says easily. “Though I’m technically not allowed to use it without a permit, but really, after all that’s happened the Ministry can shove their pretty little regulations right up their—”

“ _Sirius!”_ Remus calls admonishingly from the kitchen.

“—behind! Behind, I said behind!” Sirius coughs. “Do respect the Ministry, children. Rules are important, anarchy is bad, etcetera, etcetera.”

“ _How you got custody of Harry I will never understand.”_

“Oy!”

Harry sits down next to Sirius, feeling an inexplicably huge amount of contentment and happiness just being there, just experiencing the light-hearted banter and carefree atmosphere, for once not having to worry (albeit temporarily) about anything but enjoying himself.

“By the way, you and I need to have a chat,” Sirius says to him as Hermione has wandered off to no doubt interrogate Remus about the expansion charm, Ron standing in front of a bookcase holding a bunch of CDs with muggle music on them, examining them rather critically.

“Do we?” Harry asks, feeling slightly worried. “About what?”

“Your boyfriend of course, you sly fox!” Sirius grins teasingly at him as Harry can already feel his face turning red. “How on earth did you manage to snag some sixth year kid? Even James and I—”

“ _Stay on topic, Sirius,”_ Remus warns, temporarily interrupting his conversation with Hermione, before continuing.

“Right, sorry.”

“Um, it just… it just happened?” Harry replies uneasily, all too aware of the immensely amused look on Ron’s face as he watches on from a distance. “Why do we need to talk about this?”

“Well, firstly, because I need you to be informed before you get up to any shenanigans with this boy of yours,” Sirius says then in a sterner tone, and Harry sits up a little straighter at the shift. “Let’s start with the basics. Condoms?”

“Wh-what- _what_?” Harry sputters, Ron barely holding back his laughter in the background.

“Do you know how condoms work?”

“Um… I… maybe?”

“That’s not very good, is it,” Sirius says with a sigh, then turning his head towards the kitchen. “Remus!”

A pause. “ _Yes?”_

“Do you have any condoms?”

_“Not on me, no.”_

“You’ve got to have some lying around,” Sirius insists. “I saw you two weeks ago with that girl with the hair, whatsherface—cute one, she. Sure you didn’t use any condoms? Setting a bad example for the kids—”

There’s the sound of a crash and metal clattering on the floor. “ _For Merlin’s sake, Sirius!”_

“I didn’t do anything!” Sirius says automatically, and as Remus comes stalking out of the kitchen to lecture him on his inappropriate behaviour and why can’t he just talk to Harry like an _adult_ instead of making stupid jokes, Harry can’t help but feel truly, truly at home.

* * *

“If the only purpose to this line of questioning is to annoy me—”

_‘I just think it sad, that someone who has never really lived before would strive for immortality.’_

Tom stares at the mansion in front of him, dark and decrepit and large like a looming monolith descending into ruins, standing alone in front of what was once the birth of who he became and then suddenly wasn’t anymore.

“I don’t need your pity,” he says to the voice in his head, eyes fixated on the house before him, feeling it pulsing in the back of his head, feeling _him_ , there, waiting for Tom ever so patiently.

It’s like a dark spot in his vision, obscuring and yet present, jarringly so. He feels like he’s being pulled towards it, not out of any allure or his own free will, but as if a hand has wrapped itself around his throat and is trying to drag him closer. The touch isn’t warm nor cold, it’s merely _there_ , existing, pulling.

(Something inside of him squirms and twitches uncomfortably, an instinct on the verge of kicking, a last worry, a last fear—and he crushes it underneath his heel.)

He takes a step forward.

“I already have what I want.”  


	27. Chapter 27

The very moment Tom Marvolo Riddle sets foot upon the grounds of Riddle House in Little Hangleton, hundreds of miles away Sybill Trelawney makes her third prophecy during the Yule Ball.

Minerva McGonagall happens to be the only one who hears. She never put any faith in Trelawney’s predictions before, and the reason of her remaining a teacher of Divination when she’s quite obviously a fraud is something Minerva has yet to pry out of Albus, but it is that night that she sees something in the eccentric woman she had never seen before: a true Seer.

It starts in the midst of the opening dance, just as the Champions take their partners to the centre of the floor and the music starts up.

Minerva did not position herself beside Trelawney consciously, but it just so happens to be that both of them had little interest in watching the children dance and so remain at the back of the crowd surrounding the Champions.

The stern woman does her very best to avoid eye-contact with her colleague, but it would be impossibly rude to ignore her existence altogether, and she sees herself forced to at the very least greet her out of courtesy.

“I see that you came after all,” she says while peering at the dancers over the shoulders of two particularly tall seventh years—Merlin, they get bigger every year.

Trelawney appears startled to be addressed by her at all. She made some effort in reigning in her hair, though the colourful robes and the many bracelets and necklaces make her look much the same as she does usually. Her owlish glasses certainly don’t help.

“Ah, yes, I would not miss it!” Trelawney replies after her flustered moment of silence. “Even though I, naturally, have already been made aware of the outcome of the Tournament by the powers that be—”

“Of course you have,” Minerva interrupts wearily, wondering if it would be impolite to reach for a glass of firewhiskey before the opening dance has ended. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to share this bit of knowledge with the rest of us, would you?”

“Well, that-that is to say, it would ruin the whole point of the Tournament, wouldn’t it?” Trelawney responds a bit nervously. “Best I keep it a… a…”

When Trelawney trails off and does not finish her sentence, Minerva finally tears her eyes away from the bottle of firewhiskey sitting on the staff table and looks towards her colleague to see what’s wrong.

The second she turns to look, she suddenly finds an iron grip on her wrist, Trelawney’s hand squeezing tightly.

“What are you—”

“FATE HAS BEEN TORN INTO PIECES OF SEVEN _,”_ Trelawney rasps, her voice different, much rougher and harsher than she usually sounds, her eyes glazed over and staring ahead, as if peering at something far-away. Her body is pulled taut, and it almost appears as if she’s on the verge of having a seizure.

Recovering from her shock rather quickly, Minerva tries pulling her away from the crowd, near a chair lest the woman actually _does_ start having a seizure—even if, and she doesn’t know why, her gut-feeling tells her she needs to listen carefully and leave the woman be.

“Sybill, what on earth—?”

“TONIGHT THE FIRST WILL MEET ITS CREATOR, AND TONIGHT THE FIRST WILL KNOW DEATH. SEVEN WILL TURN INTO SIX. THE PROPHECY WILL BE BORN ANEW. SEVEN… WILL TURN… INTO SIX…”

And without another word, Trelawney slumps over and collapses on the floor.

* * *

 

When Mrs. Weasley arrives, the first thing she does when she sees Harry is crush him in a hug, her husband behind her having his arms filled with presents which he happily levitates into the living room once they’re out of sight of any potentially curious muggles.

“Oh, Harry, it’s so good to see you again!” she says as she pulls away and allows him to catch his breath, studying him with a critical eye. “You’ve been well taken care of? Your hair’s starting to grow a bit long, dear.”

“Just fine, thank you,” Harry replies politely, though he is genuinely happy to see her and the rest of the Weasley family again.

Ron, in that regard, just appears relieved that his mother has moved on from fussing over him to fussing over Harry, instead much more interested in hearing what Bill has been up to, while Hermione is already entrenched in a conversation with Charlie about the effectiveness of dragon’s bone in certain potions, Ginny listening in curiously.

Harry frowns slightly as his gaze lingers on the youngest Weasley. He feels as if there’s something about Ginny, something important, but he can’t seem to remember it at the moment.

To his misfortune Ginny catches him looking, seeming a bit startled at his attention and colouring slightly before quickly turning away, having pretended not to notice his stare.

He puts the matter aside for a moment, sure that it’ll come to him later.

“Molly, Arthur.” On his left, Sirius has started a conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Harry is quick to discover his interactions with Mrs. Weasley in particular are less strained than what he remembers it to be last summer, though it isn’t entirely without tension either.

“I hear you’ve been doing very well for yourself,” Mrs. Weasley remarks, eyebrows slightly raised at the expensive clothing and neatly trimmed hair that has still maintained its natural, wild curves. 

“Much better than I was doing five months ago, certainly,” Sirius says airily, and Mrs. Weasley frowns.

“While I’m glad to hear that, I hope you’ve been taking care of Harry in equal measure.”

Sirius looked slightly insulted by the backhanded warning, while Arthur is starting to inch away a bit, looking around as if trying to find a literal escape out of the uncomfortable conversation.

“You can ask him that yourself,” Sirius replies snappily. “He is standing right there.”

“Um.” Harry glances a bit nervously between the two adults, Mrs. Weasley tutting disapprovingly. “It’s been great. Really.”

“Don’t put the poor boy on the spot like that, Sirius!” she scolds his godfather with a rather harsh frown, ignoring Harry’s vouching for him. “I hope you’ve already talked to him about that ridiculous _Daily Prophet_ article, honestly—”

“Yes, yes, we’ve already talked about that,” Sirius says with some exasperation, trying to brush it off. “Birds and the bees, and all that.”

“Have you?” Mrs. Weasley’s sharp look now turns to Harry.

“We have!” Harry is quick to reassure her, loathe to repeat the embarrassing experience. “I know how condoms work and everything. And about consent. And stuff.”

“And _stuff_? Has he actually told you about how sex works?”

“Oh Merlin, I’m leaving!” Ron groans when he overhears his mother, who turns to glower at him.

“I don’t think so, young man—you stay right there!”

Harry shuffles a bit awkwardly on his feet. “Well, yeah. I think so.”

Sirius explained plenty of important things, emphasising the point about consent and his right to say no as well as respect someone else’s right to say no in turn, wariness about Love Potions that could get slipped into his drink at parties (or worse, considering that his fame would attract plenty of people looking to take advantage), cautioning to keep his wand close and keep a few hexes in mind just in case.

Aside from that, there was the demonstration of how one was supposed to actually use a condom properly with the use of a banana, which was the single most embarrassing moment in Harry’s life, he’s certain. Sirius also asked about his, well, sexual orientation, which Harry responded vaguely about as not being sure about himself and not having any desire of actually trying to label it either.

Hearing that according to Sirius, both of his parents had been completely straight as far as his godfather knew, did make him feel a bit strange and wonder if there was something off with him. Sirius of course allayed those concerns quickly, assuring him it was completely natural and nothing to be ashamed or worried about.

As for the actual workings of sex itself, let alone human anatomy, that part he’ll hope will soon recede into a painfully awkward memory, even if the explanation was very useful, as well as somewhat shocking. Particularly the part where Sirius went into anal sex. The look on Harry's face had the man laughing himself to tears for a whole of five minutes—in hindsight of course it would make sense that two men did it  _that_ way, but he still has to wrinkle his nose at it. It just seems so... so weird.

“Well,” Mrs. Weasley huffs in the meanwhile, eyeing Ron and Ginny critically. “I suppose it is about time—”

Ginny looks horrified. “Why _me_? How did I get dragged into this?”

“It’s best to do these things early, dear. Come on now, both of you, best we get this over with.”

“Mum, it’s _Christmas_! I don’t want to have this conversation on Christmas!”

“And how come Hermione gets a free pass?” Ron adds indignantly.

“Because I’m already fully informed, obviously,” Hermione says with a roll of the eyes. “I’ve read several books on it. I’d be happy to let you borrow some, if you’d like.”

“No!” Ron exclaims, before being immediately overridden by his mother.

“Oh, that’s a great idea,” Mrs. Weasley decides. “Best you all know as much as possible; I’m sure I’ll forget a few things here and there.”

Ron looks beseechingly to Sirius, who shrugs and claps him on the back, as if to say,  _tough luck_. Charlie and Bill seem to find it all mighty amusing, Mr. Weasley seems rather glad  _he_ won’t be the one to have to talk to the kids, and Remus looks relieved at the presence of another responsible adult for once.

“All grown-up now, are you?” Charlie says to his younger brother, ruffling Ron’s hair who slaps his hand away angrily.

“Shut up! I didn’t ask for this!”

“Come on now, Ron, it’s not so bad,” Bill chimes in reasonably, somewhat managing to placate him. “You’re going to have to learn it someday anyway—better to get it out of the way now.”

“Just be glad Fred and George aren’t here,” Charlie teases, “or you wouldn’t be hearing the end of this one.”

The twins seem to have chosen to stay at Hogwarts for the Yule Ball. Harry can’t exactly fault them, and had he been still living with the Dursleys there’s no doubt in his mind he would’ve chosen to attend without a second’s hesitation, but this year is thankfully different.

Percy is notably absent, but considering who he works for, that's not much of a surprise.

Rather than stick around and enjoy Ron’s misery like what Ron did to him just a few days ago, Harry decides to be the better man and joins Hermione, Mr. Weasley and Remus in the living room, the latter two appearing to be in a conversation about the apparently fierce debate going on about Azkaban within the Ministry while Hermione listens curiously.

“You weren’t planning on going into politics, were you, Harry?” Mr. Weasley jokes when he approaches. “I think you’d do quite well, considering.”

“I’d rather not,” Harry replies soberly, shaking his head. “I’m not much good in a debate.”

“At least you know how to get one started,” Remus says with a proud look that has Harry colouring slightly. “It’s a good thing you did, Harry. Maybe within the next two decades something will get done.”

“Is the Ministry really _that_ inefficient?” Hermione asks, Mr. Weasley sighing wearily.

“I’m afraid you don’t know the half of it—much of it is still based on the old system where only the pureblood families got to have a say in how things were run,” he explains. “The Minister gets the last word on everything, and he tends to be far too fearful of conflict to risk the ire of the purebloods.”

“Can’t you just vote him out, or something?” Harry asks. “Replace him with someone else.”

“It’s not like the muggle world, Harry,” Remus answers while Mr. Weasley looks a bit baffled at the suggestion, as if Harry just proposed they overthrow the whole government. “There are no political parties or a parliament, and no term-limit for the Minister of Magic. Voting is taken into consideration, but doesn’t actually have much power in deciding anything.”

“Uh…” Harry blinks, for a moment wondering if he’s just gone mad because that doesn’t sound very good, _at all._ He’s relieved seeing he’s not the only one shocked by this as he looks over at Hermione who has a very sour expression on her face. “Doesn’t that sound a little like… well, a dictatorship? Or is that just me?”

“It’s a completely totalitarian government, is what it is,” Hermione spits angrily. “There is absolutely no separation of powers, no accountability, no freedom of the press, voting doesn’t matter, and legislation written by the Ministry goes completely unchecked! No wonder there’s so much corruption and incompetence.”

He’s so taken in by the conversation at this point that he hardly notices the bell ringing almost continuously, new guests arriving every few minutes or so, Sirius playing the part of charming host and welcoming them inside.

“And people are just okay with that?” Harry has to wonder, looking from Remus to Mr. Weasley, the latter seeming to be rather bemused at all these new concepts being introduced to him.

“It would be a very hard thing to change, considering that even people that boast of a tolerance for muggles tend to look down on them—you’d be hard-pressed to convince people to adopt a muggle system,” Remus elaborates, Harry only just realising new people have arrived when an unfamiliar witch with bubble-gum pink hair merrily greets Mr. Weasley.

“Even if it’s clearly superior?” Hermione demands, looking almost offended by the very idea.

“Even then,” Remus replies sadly, before turning to the new arrival as well. “Ah, Nymphadora, I see you made it. Harry, Hermione, this is—”

“I _told_ you not to call me that, Remus,” the witch says with some exasperation, glancing a grin at the two children. “It’s Tonks.”

Remus’ lips twitch in a not-quite smile. “Nymphadora Tonks, who prefers to be known by her surname only.”

“So would you, if your fool of a mother had called you Nymphadora.”

Tonks, Harry soon discovers, is friendly, cheerful, and (as Hermione informs him later) completely smitten with Remus. Apparently she’s one of the many Auror-friends Sirius made, though she seems to be the only one fresh out of training.

He meets many more of Sirius’ and Remus’ friends this way—some, he discovers, are friends they had in the First Wizarding War. Dedalus Diggle, a short and excitable man with a mauve top hat whom Harry remembers meeting before quite a few years ago, sweeps into a deep bow upon meeting him once more, to Harry’s mortification.

“Harry Potter, an honour as ever!” Dedalus declares emotionally, the grand gesture making Harry's face turn red with the attention it demands from the people around him.

“That’s quite alright, really—you don’t have to _bow_ every time!”

Others are far less impressed by him, such as a severe-looking, tall Italian wizard dressed in very formal, dark robes named Calogero Roma, whom Sirius describes to him as a road-trip buddy back in the day (Harry has a hard time imagining the man _smiling_ let alone going on a road-trip with Sirius; his godfather later clarifies he was actually more of a reluctant guide he forced to tag along as he traipsed all across Italy).

“Harry Potter, _si_?”

“Er, yes. Pleasure to meet you.”

The man eyes him critically, then turns his head away. “Hmph.”

“Don’t mind this humourless grouch, Harry,” Sirius reassured him playfully, seeming entirely used to the wizard’s scalding glare, an arm slung around Calogero’s shoulders that Harry was somewhat afraid might get hacked off if he isn’t careful. “He’s the least charming Italian I’ve ever met, but he’s a good man.”

And some, Harry discovers to his surprise, are far more recent friends.

When he sees Alouette Bouvier, Sirius’ primary Healer, walk into the room at one point he has to do a double-take. Her tiny curls are neatly tied up at the top of her head, and she’s wearing a conservative pantsuit, making Harry wonder if she’s halfblood or perhaps muggleborn, since that isn’t exactly the kind of fashion often seen on witches.

“Lou, so glad you could make it!” Sirius greets her exuberantly, and receives a somewhat cool reply back.

“Yes, well, I’m starting to regret coming,” she replies with raised eyebrows as she surveys the packed room. “I thought you said this was going to be a small, intimate gathering?”

“I lied,” Sirius announces cheerfully.

It is that the woman is too dignified to roll her eyes at him, and decides to ignore him in favour of greeting Harry much more warmly than his godfather.

“Harry, good to see you,” she says with a smile. “I hope it hasn’t been too difficult, dealing with Sirius?”

“As my shrink, your confidence in my parenting skills is truly inspiring.”

“Someone with the size of your ego needs a reality-check, every now and then,” Alouette replies coolly, though the slight curve of her lips betrays some amusement.

“It’s been great,” Harry answers her question honestly. “He’s really a lot better than last summer.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

She moves on to greet Remus, who Harry last saw in the kitchen, comforting a slightly traumatised Ron who’d been doing his best to avoid his mother for the whole rest of the evening. Hermione seems plenty entertained with Ginny to watch Tonks go through several spontaneous transformations, the young Auror entertaining a small crowd of onlookers with her gift.

It’s not a small, intimate gathering, as Alouette put it—but it’s happy, and cheerful, and fun, and signals some sort of new beginning for Sirius. Harry likes meeting all the new and old friends Sirius has made, even a bit relieved that he and Remus aren’t locking themselves up in the penthouse and actually do enjoy a life outside of taking care of Harry.

But taking a moment to survey the room like this, the joyful Christmas party surely mirroring the Yule Ball back at Hogwarts, he can’t help but wonder about the one person that seems to be completely unaccounted for during all of this.

What is Tom doing, back at Hogwarts? Watching the Yule Ball in solitude? Maybe he’s down at the Library, as he’s always preferred to do when not hovering around Harry. What is he thinking about? Is he thinking of Harry at all?

“Hey,” Sirius pulls him out of his thoughts. “What’s the glum look for?”

“It’s-it’s nothing. Just a friend,” Harry mumbles, shrugging. He's been hanging back, standing near the entrance of the room with a glass of butterbeer in hand, observing. Sirius seemed to have noticed amidst all his exuberant socialising.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“No, it’s not about Cedric—someone else.”

Sirius looks at him attentively, doesn’t prod him for an answer as he otherwise tends to do in jest. He can probably tell that it’s a serious issue, which means Harry really must be looking completely miserable. To think he’d sworn to himself not to go sulking about Tom, either. Yet here he is.

“We’re really close friends,” Harry starts explaining, and then the torrent of emotions and bottled-up thoughts won’t stop pouring out of him. “We are… we _were_ as close as I am to Ron and Hermione, or… or so I thought. But then right before Christmas break, I discovered he’d been lying to me about something important. He’s not the person I thought he was, and I don’t really know what to do about it. Do I just…” Give him up to Dumbledore? “…cut him off, or give him a chance? I was so angry at first, but now I think about it, I don’t… I just don’t know.”

His godfather nods in understanding, seeming to seriously contemplate the matter a bit before responding. “That depends,” Sirius says, “on whether you think he might’ve had a good reason for lying to you or not.”

“Maybe? I’m not sure.” Harry shrugs helplessly. “But he lied about what… about _who_ he really is. I just don’t know what the truth is anymore.”

“Well, that’s solved easily enough, isn’t it? Just ask him.”

Harry stares at Sirius in bemusement. “What, like it’s that simple?”

“It is,” Sirius responds with a half-smile. “Whether you choose to believe him or not is up to you, but if you never ask, it’ll probably end up bothering you for a long time after. At least if you give him a chance to explain before you cut him off, you won’t be feeling guilty about it afterwards.”

He thinks Sirius might be speaking more from personal experience than he first thought, and suddenly the merry atmosphere of the Christmas party feels very, very far away.

“Sirius,” he starts, “what if he… what if he did something really terrible, in his past? Should I still give him a chance?”

* * *

The mansion is a ghost of what it once was. A decaying corpse at its last breath, following in the footsteps of its rightful owners that met their ends here fifty years ago.

He didn’t come alone, of course; he cannot touch the diary, and cannot be too far from it, so he had Crouch Jr. bring it along. Glancing over his shoulder, Tom can barely see the man standing guard a distance away in the shadows of a cluster of trees, on the edge of a forest stretching down over the hill.

Still, even as he’ll have to leave the man behind outside he won’t be alone. The voice in his head is silent, but he can feel its presence within him like a glowing beacon of warmth. It is soothing in a way nothing else has ever been, calming him at a time where nothing less than perfect composure is demanded.

Taking a silent breath, Tom walks up the steps to the front door—walking in the footsteps of a phantom treading the exact same path decades ago, but for a different purpose. He wraps his fingers around the doorknob, pausing for a moment.

He remembers, once, walking through this very same doorway up to the drawing room on the second floor, to find a man standing in front of him who looked just like him, who did nothing but stare in quiet shock for several long seconds as he watched Tom, and whose last words were, “ _Merope? Are you Merope’s son?”_ before Tom killed him in complete silence.

His grandmother screamed—she died second. His grandfather died last, frozen in terror. Thomas Riddle managed to utter a single word, right before he died where he sat: _Why._

Tom did not have an answer. He still doesn’t.

His fingers tighten on the doorknob.

A monster bears its teeth at him in a horrid grin.

_Let me in._

The door creaks open.

Tom peers inside, breathing in the dust. There’s a hint of brightness from the fireplace coming from the second floor, casting a faint light on old floorboards of which the wood is rotting, barely held together. It looks possibly even more derelict from the inside than it does from the outside, like the skeletal remains of something once great.

He takes a step, the wood creaking underneath his weight, walking further into the hallway towards the stairs directly to his left, where he stands still.

This is it.

Tom stares up the steps to the orange glow of fire gleaming up above, falling down through the small crack of the doorway into his eyes.

There is no turning back.

He walks up one step, and another one, and another one, a hand trailing over the old wooden railing as he does, the creak of the stairs and the beat of a pounding heart the only two things audible until he hears something large moving directly in front of him, like something heavy being dragged across the floor.

Not a moment later does he see it—a large snake, slithering inquisitively in his direction, winding up and around the wooden railing, its tongue flickering out of its mouth and tasting the air.

 _“Masssster?”_ the snake asks, shimmering dark eyes watching him.

Nagini—a faint connection from his past, but it means little to him now.

Seeing as how she’s not a threat, Tom almost deigns to ignore her when he feels something from her, like shiver in the air around her.

Another Horcrux?

He files the observation away for later, continuing his way up as the curious serpent follows behind him as soon as he passes her.

It’s throbbing, now. That dark spot that has kept expanding is now throbbing, pulsing like a second heart with a different rhythm than his own. It’s hard to think clearly, hard to just _be_ when he feels like he’s being sucked into something greater than himself. It’s a profoundly disturbing experience, to feel as if he’s on the brink of losing his sense of self—and yet there is that warmth, that small point of light inside his mind that keeps him anchored.

Tom finally reaches the dark landing.

_‘Breathe.’_

He exhales, and pushes the door in front of him open.

* * *

“That’s hard for me to say, being that I don’t know your friend like you do. Depends on what it is he did.”

“I’m not sure if I can blame it on him, more like… more like he wasn’t exactly aware of it, at the time. Almost like someone else did it, in a way.”

“A rather tricky situation, that.”

“I want to believe that he’s a different person now than he was back then, but I just don’t know.”

* * *

A short figure stands near the fireplace with a haggard appearance, seeming almost emaciated—Pettigrew. His small, beady eyes widen as far as they can go at the sight of him.

“Who—” he begins, but never gets to finish as Tom makes a flick of the wrist and Pettigrew is thrown to the far end of the room as if he weighed nothing more than a feather.

He does not need to survey to room, to know where _he_ is.

The books in the shelves look withered and the furniture is covered in filth and cobwebs, save for two large, red armchairs that face the softly crackling fireplace—his eyes are instantly glued to the one on the right.

Tom feels him, bound as they are, and what he feels leaves ice in his veins, freezing in his blood, in his lungs. The warmth that calmed him up until now flickers, almost threatening to go out.

Once, he read a book that condemned the very idea of a Horcrux as a self-mutilation of the soul that could only end in insanity. Once, there was a boy who looked at him in concern and said he only wanted to help, as if Tom were suffering from some sort of disease. Once, Tom would’ve scoffed at these notions, and would’ve decided without hesitation that splitting one’s soul was more than worth the price of immortality.

But now, as he stares at the back of the chair that holds Lord Voldemort, this shard of a person, this mockery of a human being who is empty, empty of everything but greed and hatred, like a fountain oozing nothing but blackened water, suddenly he understands.

Tearing out pieces of yourself, the pieces of your very essence, can only result into this.

Madness.

“ _I always suspected,_ ” a voice speaks to him, both in this old room and inside his head, piercing through his mind and for a single, horrifying moment he can’t separate his own thoughts from the sound of it. _“But even I could not have imagined one of my own creations to go beyond the purpose_ I _gave them.”_

It feels like nails scraping over his skull, and it’s all he can do to remain standing, to control his breathing, to maintain a calm and cool composure even while he can see all his hopes crumbling before his eyes.

_‘Breathe, Tom, breathe.’_

“M-my Lord,” Pettigrew whimpers from the other end of the room. “Wh-what is—”

“ _Leave us, Wormtail_ ,” the monster hisses, and Tom does not turn around to look, but he can hear the hurried footsteps a moment later, followed by the sound of the door, now creaking closed.

For a moment, he’s caught frozen between fight-or-flight.

_‘Breathe.’_

He breathes. “You sound displeased.”

Steady, steady, _steady_ —he can’t afford a show of weakness, not in front of this creature. Tom can’t recognise himself within any part of its being that exudes twisted, dark magic he can feel polluting his own soul like poison, just by being within proximity, tempting whispers promising power slithering into his ears, an endless torrent in the back of his mind.

_Let me in, let me in, let me in let me in LET ME IN—_

It feels like drowning, like the force of water pulling him under, slipping into his lungs, suffocating him, and he’s almost powerless to stop it. Almost, were it not for that stubborn point of light inside of him that refuses to cower, refuses to go out.

“ _I am impressed by how far you’ve come_ ,” Voldemort says softly. “ _Sit. We have much to discuss.”_

Tom doesn’t move a muscle. Something is screaming at him not to come any closer, not to look, urging him to run as fast as he can and never look back.

A quiet, humourless laughter follows at his hesitation. “ _Are you afraid,_ boy?”

“No, I’m not,” Tom responds as calmly as he can even as he feels the cracks creeping in on the edges of his carefully constructed mask.

The monster’s grin widens.

_You should be._

* * *

“You should ask him.”

“Even if…?”

“If it’s true that he wasn’t quite aware of whatever terrible thing he did at the time, and he’s truly a changed person, then I think giving him the chance to defend himself is the right thing to do.”

“What if he hasn’t changed? What if he’s not a good person, like I thought he was? What if he really is someone else entirely?”

“Then you’ll have your answer, won’t you?”

* * *

_"Sit,”_ Lord Voldemort repeats, and it is not a request—has never been a request—and Tom knows he has already risked ire by defying once, and so he forces his legs to move.

He walks toward the large chair on the left, does not immediately look to his right as he sits down, stares into the fire that feels much colder than it should, as if Voldemort’s very presence is suppressing its heat. He sucks in a silent breath, and finally turns his head and looks.

For a moment he is lost in incomprehension, his mind unable to register the frail thing within the bundle of blankets sitting in the chair, until his eyes finally land on the small, disfigured head in the midst of thick cloth.

The nausea and revulsion permeating his very being is given away outwardly only by a slight cringe, but in truth nothing Tom could’ve imagined would have prepared him for the sight in front of him. He should have anticipated it—any sort of physical form, even that of an infant, is better than to be in limbo, but the knowledge in hindsight does nothing to temper the disgust he feels in his very core.

To have been reduced to this—is this creature really _him_? Is this Tom Riddle?

“ _Pitiful, is it not?”_ Voldemort rasps just as Tom turns his head away to look back into the fire again, feeling the bile rising in his throat. _“Unlike you, I have been far less successful in acquiring a proper body, but Crouch tells me that might change soon, with your help.”_

The voice rasps into his ear, against his skull, into his very mind; every time Voldemort speaks it feels like a violation. Perhaps, if he had not developed so much into his own person, if he’d just remained the Diary Horcrux instead of become something more, Tom would not have noticed the effect. He might have even thought it to be natural, not at all an invasion like it feels now.

“That is what I’m here for,” Tom answers slowly, cautiously, very aware of the vice-like grip he has on the arms of his chair but unable to relax when he feels like a predator is breathing down his neck. “To help, if it is within my capacity.”

Voldemort is silent—Tom can feel him _probing_ , like claws digging into his head, attempting to pry him open and peer inside, trying to _control_ him, but something is stopping him. Something is protecting Tom from being exposed, stripped bare, and overtaken completely.

 _‘Breathe,’_ the sliver of Horcrux whispers inside his mind, and never has Tom been more relieved at its presence. _‘I am here. Breathe.’_

Tom should have thought of this, but he had long stopped considering himself a mere Horcrux, a tool, a weapon to be used. Of course Voldemort would think differently. Of course Voldemort would only see Tom as his creation, something he _owned_ , something that ought to follow his every command, his every whim.

So concerned with his own plans, in all his arrogance, Tom hardly stopped to think—and Harry warned him, he realises with bitter wryness. Harry _told him_ about the corruption the creation of a Horcrux brings, and Tom should’ve known the true implications that reached far beyond himself.

Even after becoming more and more alive, Tom himself has remained in balance, regardless of how incomplete he still was and is. A certain something— _someone_ —is keeping him together, filling in the parts of himself that he’s missing like a coat of paint. It is a temporary solution, but still far better than succumbing to his darkest parts, his cruellest instincts.

Lord Voldemort had no such solution, and no such protection.

A hiss interrupts the silence in the room, and a moment later Tom can see the snake he saw before on the stairs slithering up her master’s chair, curling around the top with her massive body, head turned in Tom’s direction curiously.

 _“The child feelssss like Masssster,”_ the serpent says, not breaking her gaze from Tom.

The comparison, he finds, is unsettling.

 _“Indeed he does,”_ Voldemort says, Nagini coiling down to the arm of the chair, her long body reaching over the gap between the two chairs and crossing over to Tom’s.

He does not look at the serpent as it slithers up his arm to curl around his tense shoulders, hissing in his ear, tongue flicking out.

 _“I think he is sssscared,”_ she says. _“I can ssssmell the fear off him. Are you sssscared of ssssnakes, child?”_

 _“Not at all,”_ Tom responds quietly in Parseltongue, the language a small comfort of familiarity.

 _“Good,”_ Nagini hisses, pleased, and seems content to linger on Tom’s shoulders.

A quiet hum rings in Tom’s ears, and it’s getting harder and harder to separate it from his mind. The longer he stays here, the more he risks possession.

 _“We are one in the same, Nagini—he has no reason to be scared,”_ Voldemort says. _“Do you, boy?”_

“Of course not,” Tom says, and he says it too soon, too fast, stumbling over an amateur mistake where he should know better, but there are too many voices in his head, too many whispers, he can barely focus on just one, and Voldemort is still prodding his defences, trying to find a way to slither inside—

 _“Yes, of course not,”_ Voldemort agrees coldly. _“You must have another reason for guarding your mind.”_

Tom stays very, very still. “If I am, I’m not doing so consciously. Why would I? I have nothing to hide from you.”

 _Liar, liar, liar, he’ll know, he’ll find out, you’ll regret it, should’ve let me in_ —

A mirthless, quiet laughter is his only response. _“I should hope not, for your sake. Why don’t you tell me how you came to be in this state? As I understand it, it was Harry Potter who acquired you.”_

Acquired him. As if he were still a mere object.

“It was,” Tom says, ignoring the urge to take a deep, steadying breath. The feel of Nagini’s cool scales pressing against the back of his neck does nothing to ease him, and he barely manages to suppress a shudder when she shifts. “I could’ve killed him whenever I wished, but I thought it prudent to seek you out, first. You need his blood for the ritual to regain your body, do you not?”

If Voldemort noticed Tom’s evasion of his question, he does not comment on it—and Tom knows better than to think he didn’t notice.

“ _I desire it, but I do not need it; many others would fulfil the requirement of blood in the ritual just as well. I imagine it would be wiser to allow you to kill him, but I would much rather enjoy that pleasure myself,”_ the Dark Lord answers quietly. _“Get me his blood, but keep him alive. He is mine to kill.”_

The vial of blood in Tom’s pocket burns against his leg, his heart pounding so harshly against his ribs he’s sure Nagini can feel its vibrations.

“If that is what you wish,” he says, and nothing more.

_“Then I suppose I should not keep you any longer, should I?”_

Tom looks up then, at the bundle sitting on the other side of him, sensing an edge in that tone, something threatening—Nagini slithers off his shoulders down onto the floor, disappearing from sight. He knows no answer to that question would be a good one, knows that not answering it is just as damning, feels stuck in his chair with no place to run, and he can feel _something_ coming but he has no idea what, only that he will suffer for it.

 _“When Crouch first came to me to tell me about you—my Horcrux, my weapon inside of the very walls of Hogwarts—I was more than pleased,”_ Voldemort says, and Tom feels something pricking in the back of his mind, like a needle, or several needles, stabbing at him. _“You and I, we are one and the same. You were my first creation, and yet… and yet, you seem to be hiding something from me,_ Tom.”

He understands then that the mistake he made in coming here at all is going to cost him very, very dearly. There is nothing he can say at this point to save himself, realises far too late that the stabbing sensation that is now stinging like a scorching heat is nothing less that Voldemort’s anger, trying to tear his mind open that’s being kept locked by the other Horcrux within Tom, and it is _infuriating_ Voldemort that he should be keeping any manner of secrets. That he should have a will of his own.

 _‘I tried to warn you,’_ Harry’s Horcrux whispers sadly.

Tom still does not move, does not speak, not even inside his own mind. He waits, much like an animal with its leg caught in a trap, knowing that struggling will only make it worse.

 _“I will assume,”_ Voldemort continues softly, _“that it is something that benefits us both, and that you have a good reason for it. Who can I trust, if not myself, after all? But perhaps, before you leave, I ought to give you a small reminder of where you came from, who created you. We wouldn’t want you to get any delusions of freedom, now would we?”_

Something flashes before his eyes—a corpse, his father’s corpse, and the diary, opened on a blank page in front of him. A spell, a ritual, a wand, blood on his hands, a memory years and years and years ago, something he had long forgotten—

“What are you doing?” Tom blinks rapidly, unseeing, torn between flickers of the present and the past, and then, he feels it building. A sharp pain in the depths of his very _soul_ , building steadily. “What are you _doing_?”

 _“Come now, there’s no need to be frightened, Tom,”_ Voldemort says, a cold, cruel sneer as he forces the memory into Tom’s head. “ _I’m merely helping you remember the day you were born… the day I created you.”_

And just like that the present is gone and he finds himself there, fifty years ago, the diary in front of him, runes carved into its open pages, all starting to light up a dark red one by one as he watches and he feels it tugging, pulling at his already fractured soul, splintering it, _tearing it_.

The pain is blinding in a way nothing has ever been before, and he remembers, remembers himself being _ripped out_ and forcefully sewed into the diary, remembers it far more vividly than he should because it feels like a limb slowly being torn off, the skin severing first, then the veins and the tendons and the muscles, bleeding and bleeding and bleeding _and screaming_ , until finally it cracks through bone and it breaks and tears and is stitched to something else, mangled and broken and aching in an agony no one should have to endure.

And even then, the pain does not stop.

It lingers there like a rash, eating at him, torn and twisted as he already is, pleading in his own mind _enough, enough, ENOUGH_ , but no one hears him.

The pain was no doubt temporary for his creator, a fleeting sensation easily tempered by magic, but he, he is what he is and he cannot make the ache from being separated from the rest of his soul disappear. He suffers there in the pages of the diary in excruciating agony, weak and pathetic, bleeding out, thorns burrowing themselves into his open wound.

For the longest time there was only that pain, and nothing else. There was no reprieve from it and no matter how much time passed he was not allowed to grow numb to it, like a hellfire kept alight, burning him from the inside out, every inch of him scorching, scalding, blistering.

At the very end of it all there was only a weak voice in the dark, begging, _let it end._

Tom relives it all in an instant, the very next moment finding himself collapsed onto his hands and knees in front of the fireplace, shivering, sweating, tears of pain trailing down his face, coughing black bile out of his lungs, dripping from his mouth like ink because he is not quite human but he still _feels_ , he feels as if he went through it all over again, that memory he had mercifully forgotten. He can barely breathe.

 _“You would do well to remember this moment, boy,”_ Voldemort hisses, voice sounding like an echo from a far-away place. _“Resist me again, and I will not be so forgiving. You are my creation, my_ property _, nothing less, nothing more.”_

And Tom thinks, sitting there still aching, still quivering, still gasping for breath, that he might have found a fate worse than death.


	28. Chapter 28

The Yule Ball is probably one of the more awkward moments in Cedric's life.

He decides to play it safe and asks his closest friend, Lorelei Fawley, out for the dance. Though truth be told Harry might have disagreed about it being safe, seeing as how she’s a pretty girl and Cedric never really specified that he typically _only_ fancies boys.

His father certainly thought something might’ve been possible between the two of them, practically badgering Cedric about his relationship with her in the summer of ’92 when Lorelei came over to visit. Part of it might have to do with her pureblood heritage, being that her family is one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but Amos Diggory’s main reason was simple: the Fawleys are filthy, _filthy_ rich.

They are a long line of wealthy wizards and witches known primarily for being entrepreneurs and business-savvy tycoons. From clothing to cauldrons to toys and brooms and potions and crystal balls, there is scarcely a thing they _don’t_ produce. It was only when Lorelei herself was so bold to inform his father she had no interest in his son that he dropped the matter—and moved onto Cho.

(Cedric hasn’t talked to his father since the Daily Prophet article came out. His mother wrote him a letter, reassuring him that both of his parents loved him and accepted him no matter what, but seeing as how it’s usually his father who writes letters to him, the underlying disappointment there is almost palpable. Homosexuality might not be persecuted or discriminated against in pureblood families, but it is certainly considered _impractical_.)

The thought of dating Lorelei never occurred to Cedric. He knows from years of friendship that he’s never been her type, being far too prim and proper, and she’s never been his for obvious reasons. Even if he were into girls, it probably wouldn’t have worked out anyway; he gets tired rather quickly of her seemingly endless reserves of energy and domineering, and she usually fancies people that are adventurous and exciting.

They have that in common, he supposes.

As far as the Yule Ball goes, all expectations of it are that it should proceed smoothly if nothing else. By the time it comes around they’ve rehearsed the Champions Waltz a hundred times, and Lorelei is a very good dancer whose pointers for Cedric are more than helpful, and end up making an otherwise painfully boring activity a little bit fun.

The thing that ends up making it awkward, or rather, the _person_ that makes it awkward, is Cho Chang.

When he broke up with her Cedric thought she took it well, even with a broken heart; he had never felt as much for her as she did for him, but he knew how much she liked him. At the time of him ending it she still managed a smile and said she'd like to be friends, or at least on friendly terms. He assumed that that was the end of that relationship, and it never occurred to him that she was expecting him to ask _her_ to the ball once Harry was, even if temporarily, out of the picture.

For some reason, Cho doesn't seem to think of Harry as a threat. A rich girl with big brown eyes, however? That's a different story.

Of course, he doesn't see her or even notice her during the opening ceremony at first, politely keeping his attention focused on his friend. Lorelei is wearing a pretty, short and frilly yellow dress that looks more suited to a party than a formal ball, complimenting her deep brown skin beautifully, and compared to the almost stormy look on Viktor Krum's face Cedric is rather happy about his partner.

As the music starts swelling up, Cedric focuses on the first steps of the waltz as they start to move and he leads his partner through the dance. His motions, while on the rhythm, are stiff and without much enthusiasm—he’s never had much with dancing, and it doesn’t come as naturally to him as it does Lorelei, who seems entirely in her element. Compared to him (or perhaps precisely because she has him as a partner) she has the grace of a swan and seems to glide with the music where he looks like he’s made entirely of wood.

He tries to enjoy it, but having nearly a hundred pairs of eyes on him only makes him more self-conscious, even as he keeps his gaze focused on Lorelei, who raises her eyebrows at the intensely concentrated look on his face.

“You look rather constipated.”

Cedric is so startled by her remark that he starts laughing, the tension in his shoulders ebbing out slightly.

“See? Much better,” Lorelei says at finally seeing him crack a smile. “Your brooding is quite attractive to the ladies, I’m sure, but you don’t have to be utterly miserable just because Potter’s not here.”

They’ve rehearsed the waltz so many times that their steps are automatic, mainly thanks to his paranoia that he might make a misstep and completely embarrass himself _and_ his House _and_ Hogwarts in front of a giant crowd. Speaking and dancing at the same time is trivial, at this point.

“I wish I was at that Christmas party,” Cedric admits, and they aren’t supposed to be speaking at all to begin with, but it’s much more fun than moving around in silence while blankly staring at each other.

Fleur’s partner, for example, looks completely star-struck by her to the point where Fleur’s smile has turned a little strained. Must be hard, being part-Veela.

“Mmm,” Lorelei hums, seeming distracted by something in the crowd, her eyes no longer on Cedric. “I think I might not survive the night,” she mutters, Cedric having to lean in slightly just to hear her.

“How so?”

“Well,” Lorelei says as they make a turn about the room, her eyes fixated to a spot in the crowd which Cedric can’t see at the moment, his back turned to it. “Your ex looks like she’s about to march over here and drag me off by my hair. I won’t be responsible for my actions if she does—do you have _any_ idea how long it took to find the perfect style of braid?”  

As they continue the turn and Cedric spins them around he manages a glance at the girl in question—Cho is standing there with her arms crossed over her chest, a slight furrow between her brows as she watches them. Soft-spoken as she usually is, her scowling says a lot.

“Oh, for…” Cedric breathes a deep sigh.

Is it too much to hope for that this has nothing to do with jealousy?

Apparently so, because when more couples start joining the dance and Lorelei and Cedric decide to grab some drinks after (at Lorelei’s insistence) dancing for about half an hour, they happen to pass Cho and her partner.

That would be the exact moment where most of Cedric’s night goes to the dogs.

“Hi, Cedric,” Cho greets him before the couple can pass them completely and Cedric can pretend never to have seen her to avoid an awkward situation. Too late now.

He stops and looks at Cho. Her date for the night is a fellow Ravenclaw, a seventh year named Newfield, though Cedric can’t remember his first name. Berthold, or Bertrand, something in that vein. Plays in the Ravenclaw Quidditch team as a Chaser, if he recalls correctly.

“Hello, Cho,” he greets her back, trying not to be too aware of the fact that both of their partners are completely ignored in this exchange. “Enjoying the ball so far?”

Lorelei doesn’t seem to mind—she looks rather amused, actually.

“Yes, very much,” Cho replies a bit uncomfortably, the arm she has hooked around Newfield’s tightening. “Bernard is a great dancer.”

Right, Bernard.

He really doesn’t want to deal with this right now.

“Glad you’re having fun,” Cedric says politely. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my date is quite tired and I was about to fetch us some drinks—”

Cho arches her eyebrows sharply, glancing once at Lorelei who is studying her nails, painted dark blue with a Shimmering Charm to make them glimmer silver like stars every few seconds or so. “Your _date_ , is she?”

“For the night, yes.”

“But you’re supposedly going out with Harry Potter, aren’t you?”

“Supposedly?” Cedric repeats, frowning in confusion. “There’s nothing _supposed_ about it. We are going out.”

“Yes, but,” Cho hesitates briefly, “it’s not like going out with a girl, is it?”

Cedric’s jaw slackens for a moment as he stares at her in a dumbfounded silence. Even Lorelei’s faint amusement has vanished at that, and she’s already opening her mouth with a furious scowl to voice her indignation on Cedric’s behalf when Cedric gets over his astonishment to squeeze her wrist in a warning not to interfere and make a scene. Lorelei turns her frown on him, but after a moment turns away again with a huff.   

“I’ll-I’ll just go get us some drinks,” Newfield announces awkwardly, taking a step away from the uneasy atmosphere and breaking up the tense silence.

“Brilliant idea,” Lorelei agrees with a cool glare towards Cho, following her partner towards the buffet while Cedric tries to come up with a coherent response to his ex-girlfriend who looks bemused at the reaction she’s getting.

“What exactly do you mean by that?” he asks her cautiously, a bit anxiously, because she can’t mean what he _thinks_ she means, can she?

Oh, but she can.

“I mean, it’s not serious, is it?” Cho says with an apprehensive little shrug. “This whole… um, _thing_.”

It is baffling how sincere she is, and there is nothing malicious about the way she says it either, as if she just stated a fact. He hasn’t been confronted with anything outwardly homophobic, probably because he’s still the school’s darling at the moment, but there’s something about this subtle prejudice that almost feels worse than had someone outright called him names. Having it come from someone whom he considered at the very least a friend feels especially like a dagger in the back.

“I’m sorry,” Cedric says slowly, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that this girl he used to date, who is in _Ravenclaw_ , could be saying such utterly and astoundingly ignorant things when it comes to this particular topic. This isn’t the girl he thought he knew. “I don’t think you really understand what’s going on here. This isn’t a temporary fling, Cho. I only asked Lorelei out because she’s my best friend. Harry is still my boyfriend.”

“Yes, for now,” Cho replies, seemingly equally confused as Cedric. “But once you’re ready for a real relationship—”

“I _have_ a real relationship,” Cedric almost snaps at her, managing to be patient, but the edge in his voice is sharp enough that it nearly makes her wince. “And I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t keep belittling it.”

Cho looks taken aback by his bad-tempered demeanour, which he can’t fault her for since she’s never seen him this agitated. Even if their relationship had been mostly one-sided and rather cool on Cedric’s part, they still got along fine aside from that. He can’t remember if they ever even argued before.

“I didn’t mean to…” Cho look slightly embarrassed, avoiding his eyes. “I just thought maybe it was a phase.”

“It isn’t.”

“Still, even if it isn’t, you can’t honestly expect it to last for long. He’s barely fourteen, not to mention incredibly famous,” she continues on, more determined than he’s ever seen her even if rattled. “What-what’s to say it isn’t a phase for him?”

“Even if that were the case, I don’t see how any of it would concern _you_ ,” Cedric responds tersely as he can feel what was previously a well of patience very quickly drying up. “And I really don’t want to sound cruel, but you really need to get a clue—we are done. I’m not going to come running back to you even if Harry and I were to break up.”

Cho looks at him with wide eyes in a moment of flustered alarm, and it seems she's finally beginning to realise how serious he really is. “Y-you… you say that _now_ , but—”

“Whether it’s now or tomorrow or twenty years into the future, it doesn’t matter,” Cedric interrupts, voice perhaps louder than it should’ve been because even he has his limits, but he maintains his composure, knowing that blowing up in her face will just do more harm than good. “I am not getting back together with you, Cho. Not now, or ever.”

Cedric feels intensely satisfied, but only for a moment until tears start welling up in Cho’s eyes, and whether it was deserved or not, he’s flooded with instant remorse.

“Oh, hell… Cho, look, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s fine,” she replies quickly, wiping at her eyes as she takes a step away from him. “It was wrong of me to have said any of that, I’m sorry. I just… I was hoping… sorry.”

Before he can say another word she turns away from him and quickly walks away, her shoulders shaking with a sob. She nearly runs into Lorelei who has two drinks in both hands, managing to dodge out of the way of Cho’s path at the last second, and looking over at Cedric in puzzlement.

It’s only then that Cedric realises that about a dozen or so students surrounding them have eavesdropped on the conversation, and he feels even more like a giant prick than he already did. He doesn’t regret what he said, but maybe he should’ve taken her aside somewhere more private before effectively dumping her a second time in front of a whole crowd.

“What on earth did you say to her?” Lorelei asks as she approaches. Cedric doesn’t say a word and instead reaches for the glass of firewhiskey in her hand, gulping down a third of it in one mouthful. “Easy there, darling. We still have a whole night to go. Did you hear that Trelawney _fainted_? Professor McGonagall was practically yelling for the Headmaster.”

“I hate being a teenager.”

“Sorry to break it to you, but relationship drama isn’t just reserved for teenagers,” Lorelei replies wryly, sipping from her Ashwinder wine, a drink said to taste very mellow on the tongue but feel positively fiery as it goes down. A good percentage of people can’t stomach it at all and end up spewing out fire, which makes Cedric briefly wonder where on earth she found a glass of that since he’s sure the pale-grey drink with its orange-red centre is banned in Hogwarts.

“A fellow Slytherin friend of mine smuggled it in,” Lorelei says with a mischievous little smile when she catches him looking. It’s said to be a very energising beverage, if one can manage not to throw up magical fire. “Want a taste?”

“No, thank you.” A firewhiskey is warm enough for him.

“Want to sit down somewhere and sulk, then?”

Cedric frowns, staring down into his glass as he ignores her sneer. “Cho said something that’s bothering me, about Harry.”

“What?”

“She said... it was something along the lines of asking me how I could be sure it wasn’t a phase for him, which I know it isn’t,” Cedric explained, dismissing that part for the desperation that it was, “but the part that’s bothering me is when she mentioned that he’s only fourteen, and practically a legend ever since he was a baby.

“It’s just something that hadn’t really occurred to me, because he doesn’t act like a fourteen year old, he doesn’t act like he’s a celebrity, but he’s _Harry Potter_ , and he hasn’t even started studying for his O.W.Ls yet.”

Lorelei nods, taking another sip from her drink. “And?”

Cedric blinks. “What do you mean, _and_?”

“I don’t see the problem.”

“How can you not see the problem?” Cedric replies in exasperation, nearly about to gesticulate with his hands when he remembers he’s holding a drink in one of them. “I’m already legally an adult and next year is my last year at Hogwarts, not to mention that compared to him I’m just _me_ , no one special, while he’s—”

“Hecate’s tits, please spare me the angst,” Lorelei groans. “Are we really going to go through this self-esteem nonsense again? Come, let’s sit down, these heels are killing me. I do look fabulous in them, though, don’t I?”

“Lor, I’m serious!”

“You’re just seventeen, Cedric, not twenty-five. You might be considered an adult under the law, but you’re still just a boy,” Lorelei replies as she hooks an arm through his and starts dragging him away towards one of the empty tables. “As long as you don’t try to take advantage of him or pressure him into anything, why does it matter? The age thing isn’t going to be a problem unless you make it one.”

“But what about—”

“Seeing as how he chose you as his boyfriend, I’m fairly sure _he_ thinks you’re good enough for him, so why shouldn’t you?” Lorelei cuts him off with a frown. “Besides, you were picked by the Goblet of bloody Fire, and you literally stole an egg right from under a dragon’s nose! You have a great chance of winning the whole Triwizard Tournament—how can you still doubt yourself after that?”

They sit down at a table next to each other, facing the direction of the dance floor. Cedric sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know I’m being stupid, Lor, I just can’t help but worry sometimes.”

“Oh please, that boy adores you,” Lorelei huffs, downing the last bit of her wine and being at least so polite as to not look at Cedric as he flushes slightly. “It would take You-Know-Who himself to split the two of you apart at this point.”

Cedric can’t help but smile at that. “Think so?”

She takes his hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Darling, you have absolutely _nothing_ to worry about.”

* * *

“Well, I’m not sure exactly how many rules there are,” Hermione says, sitting on the couch next to Ginny and attempting to explain to her how traffic works in the muggle world. “I only ever go to places on foot or through public transportation. I tried riding a bicycle in the city once but the cars made me too nervous and I kept nearly falling off every time one passed me.”

“I don’t even know how to ride a bicycle,” Ginny admits. “Is it kind of like riding a broom?”

“Oh, no, you actually have to pedal with your feet to move the bike forward, and steering and breaking is a lot less intuitive as well. It’s a very physical exercise.”

“What about motorcycles? Do you also have to do the pedalling thing?” she inquires, then lowering her voice and leaning in conspiratorially. “Sirius showed me his and it looked absolutely _wicked_ , but mum says I’m not allowed to get one.”

“I’d say using a motorcycle is a bit more like using a broom, but I’m not surprised your mum doesn’t want you to drive one. They’re pretty dangerous, and you have to be at least—”

“’Scuse me,” Ron announces, plopping down on the couch right between the two of them, the girls barely managing to scoot out of the way lest they be squished under Ron’s weight, limbs still gangling and awkward in the midst of his growth spurt.

Hermione bristles at his sudden entrance, glaring daggers that are all but ignored as Ron sips from his sweet flutterby tea, the extremely pleasant aroma wafting through the air as he blows a bit to cool it down some more before taking another sip.

“You’re such an oaf,” Ginny complains with a roll of the eyes, before asking, a bit more timidly, “Where’s Harry?”

“The kitchen, last I saw.”

It’s fast approaching midnight now, and though the party is still going strong its youngest participants are starting to feel a bit sleepy. Ron in particular seems to be having trouble keeping his eyes open as he slowly drinks his tea.

“He’s been looking a bit demure, don’t you think?” Hermione mentions hesitantly.

Ron opens his mouth to answer, but is briefly distracted by a loud shout coming from the small table where several people—including Mrs. Weasley, Sirius and Tonks—have sat down to play a game with a deck of wizarding cards. All three of them peer at the happening just in time to see Mrs. Weasley triumphantly scooping a small stack of silver and gold coins towards her while Sirius stares indignantly at a card hovering above the centre of the table, flashing an angry, red 7 of hearts at him.

“Can I ask you guys a question?” Ginny then says once the topic of conversation has been effectively derailed as Ron doesn’t bother replying to Hermione’s observation.

“Sure, Gin, what is it?” her brother replies lackadaisically, slouched in his seat and still lazily sipping from his tea.

“This is going to sound odd, but have you guys maybe… well… have you ever seen Harry with a diary?”

While the question is unexpected, Hermione keeps a straight face, arching her eyebrows ever so slightly—Ron, on the other hand, chokes on his tea.

Ginny claps him on the back a few times as Ron nearly hacks up a lung, face turning red from the exertion. When he finally manages to gather himself, he nervously clears his throat.

“Ha-Harry with a _diary_?”

“I know it’s a really weird question, but it’s important,” Ginny insists with a troubled frown, glancing from her brother to Hermione who is trying very hard not to glare at Ron. “Have you?”

“I haven’t,” Ron responds a tad too quickly, his voice higher than it should be. “You, ‘mione?”

“Not that I can recall, no,” Hermione says in a much calmer manner, peering at Ginny inquisitively. “Why? Would that be bad?”

“I... there’s… I heard a rumour, about a, um, cursed diary going around,” Ginny lies, and even if she hadn’t fumbled with the explanation it’s obvious _which_ diary she’s talking about. “It-it makes you do things you wouldn’t normally do. Bad things.”

“Like what?”

She shrugs helplessly. “I don’t-I don’t know! I was just worried, I heard it from one of the girls in my year that one of her friends had it or something, but I don’t know.”

“Ginny, if there’s something—” Ron starts, but is quickly cut off as Ginny nearly bolts off the couch.

“I have to go. To the loo. Um. Right.” And she quickly walks away, looking incredibly pale. Ron watches her go in worry, and turns to Hermione who is sporting a rather grim expression, eyes turned downwards in contemplation.

“D’you think...?”

She looks up at him with a frown, then turns her gaze toward the kitchen where she can barely glimpse the messy black hair through the people who keep moving in and out, Harry seeming to be occupied in pleasant conversation with Charlie.

“We should tell Harry.”

* * *

The early morning after the Yule Ball most students are still fast asleep. Cedric is one of the few awake, having always been a morning person and having retired to bed early the night before, quickly growing weary of all the dancing (to Lorelei’s great consternation, though she found plenty of partners to replace him with).

Outside, at this time of day the sky is surprisingly clear. He passes by many large windows on the way to the Great Hall, and though there’s no clouds left the ground is covered in pristine white snow. It’s perfect Quidditch weather, if a bit cold though that’s nothing a Warming Charm won’t fix, and he laments not being able to take advantage of it.

As he walks through the nearly completely empty corridors, dressed only in jeans and a woolly sweater instead of his uniform, he passes the stairs leading up to Moody’s classroom. The Professor in question is in the midst of going up the steps, and while Cedric never particularly liked the man (his teaching methods are questionable to say the least) he feels it’d be rude to walk past him without a word.

“Good morning, Professor,” he says, which seems to startle the man quite a bit, to the point where he drops something he’d been carrying.

It’s a small book of sorts, tumbling down the steps and falling in front of Cedric who’s already reaching for it, glancing at the cover and surprised to see a name engraved in its leather in bold, golden letters.

**TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE**

The moment the tips of his fingers graze the spine of the book he feels an extremely unpleasant shock jolt through his arm, prompting him to quickly pull his hand back. “Ouch.”

Moody has already gone back down the steps by this point, and bends down to scoop up what’s most likely a diary as Cedric rubs over his hand, feeling somewhat like he’s just been electrocuted. The pads of his fingers feel like they’re swelling up red, burning, as if he accidentally touched a boiling hot cauldron. That’s going to take a trip to Madam Pomfrey to heal.

“Watch yourself, son,” Moody grunts. “That book was confiscated for a reason.”

“So how come you can touch it without getting hurt, sir?” Cedric asks curiously as he watches his teacher handle the diary with his bare hand without problem. Moody turns both eyes on him then, glaring intently.

“Figured out your Egg yet, Diggory?”

While Cedric notes Moody’s evasion, he’s easily distracted by the reminder of the upcoming Second Task. “Er, not yet, sir.”

Moody hums in consideration, his real eye fixated on Cedric’s face while the fake one spins around wildly, briefly disappearing into the back of his head before rolling forward again. “Take a bath and mull it over.”  

Before Cedric can ask what the man is on about, Moody turns around and proceeds to go up the stairs again, not sparing Cedric another glance.

Left alone in the large hallway, he looks down at his burnt fingers, considering the odd but nonetheless unpleasant sensation of the diary against his skin.

For a reason he can’t place, it reminds him strangely of a wounded animal, lashing out in pain.

Discarding the thought, Cedric decides to visit the Hospital wing for a Healing Salve first before attempting to eat anything with burnt fingertips. Madam Pomfrey looks exasperated at seeing him, but rubs his fingers in with the salve without complaint and within a matter of seconds the burn marks and the pain are completely gone.

When he arrives at the Great Hall by then, it’s still not nearly as full as he’d been expecting, and even most of the staff table is empty, including that of the Headmaster’s seat. Cedric doesn’t think much of it at first, actually grateful for the peaceful and quiet winter morning after all the loud music from last night. Glancing over at the Slytherin table which is empty save for three people, Lorelei is predictably absent—sporting a massive hangover, no doubt. Ravenclaw’s table is slightly more populated with six people, the Gryffindor table is entirely empty, and the Hufflepuffs have the most with about nine students.

It’s then he remembers, as he stops looking at the staff table before he accidentally catches Snape’s glare, something that Lorelei said last night. Something about Professor Trelawney fainting.

The few of his fellow Hufflepuffs present greet him as he takes a seat near the end of the table, looking surreptitiously at the Divination Professor’s empty seat.

“Think she had a freak-out, that Trelawney,” Wally Randall, a friendly seventh year with incredibly curly brown hair, remarks as he notices Cedric looking. “Dumbledore and McGonagall escorted her out—you would’ve seen it, if you hadn’t been too busy getting shitfaced with Fawley.”

“I wasn’t drinking,” Cedric replies with a slightly offended frown. “Not that much, anyway. What do you mean with freak-out?”

“Someone heard McGonagall say she was babbling nonsense. Always knew she was completely off her rocker, but it’s too bad—I always did pretty well in her class.”

“Excuse me!” Ernie Macmillan chimes in from a few seats down the table, looking incredibly affronted. “She wasn’t babbling nonsense! Professor Trelawney is a _Seer_ —”

“Oh, shut it, Macmillan,” Blaise Zabini jeers from the Slytherin table. “No one’s got time for your superstitious drivel.”

“She _was_ related to Cassandra Trelawney,” a Ravenclaw student can’t help but inform them with a nervous glance towards Zabini.

“None of that means that she actually made a bloody Prophecy. Have you ever been in her class? She predicted my death at least five times the past month!”

“Prophecy? Really?” Cedric raises his eyebrows, turning to Wally. “Anyone know what she said?”

Wally opens his mouth to reply, when his eyes flit to something behind him and his lips quickly snap shut again, nervously averting his gaze to his plate of eggs and toast. The argument Zabini was having with Macmillan and the Ravenclaw seems to have instantly died out as well.

Cedric curiously turns to find none other than the Headmaster standing between the tables, hands clasped behind his back and wearing soft-green robes.

“Rather lively with all this gossip, so early in the morning,” Dumbledore says pleasantly, looking out over the few students present.

“Good morning, sir,” Cedric greets him politely, finding the twinkle-eyed gaze turning to him. “Is it true that Professor Trelawney made a Prophecy?” He doesn’t see why they shouldn’t just _ask_ instead of speculate; it’s not as if Prophecies are inherently bad things. Many people just tend not to be fond of them since most of them are often foretelling of disastrous events rather than anything happy, but Cedric thinks that says more about the world they live in than Prophecies themselves.

“It is difficult for me to say,” the Headmaster replies. “Since I wasn’t there to witness it myself.”

“I don’t suppose you could repeat what it was that she said, then, could you, sir?”

“I’m afraid it’s not my Prophecy to tell, as it were,” Dumbledore says enigmatically, looking far too amused with himself and Cedric tries not to sigh at the response.

 _‘Should’ve been expecting that,’_ he thinks as he turns back to the breakfast spread out over the table. It’s not as if it’s something he’s dying to know, but it’s hardly every day that you hear of a Seer making a Prophecy—those tend to have the reputation of being infallible, so whatever she made the Prophecy about is at this point an inevitability.

“A moment, Cedric,” Dumbledore says then to his surprise, hardly having moved from his spot and Cedric turns back to him in question.

“Sir?”

“I believe you will most likely be the first to welcome Harry back once the holidays are over,” the Headmaster starts, and Cedric suddenly feels very young under the fond scrutiny of the old teacher, feeling the blush creeping up his neck and the heat in his cheeks. “Would you mind directing him to my office, once you’re done greeting him?”

Cedric sits up a little straighter at this, looking at Dumbledore in concern. “Of course, sir—but he’s not in any trouble, is he?”

“I would hope not,” the Headmaster says, and Cedric doesn’t find that very comforting. “Enjoy the rest of your break, my boy.”

“I will. Thank you, sir.”

And as Dumbledore walks away towards the staff table, even though Cedric had Madam Pomfrey heal the ugly blisters on his hand, for some reason he can still feel his fingers burning.


	29. Chapter 29

It’s the first day of the new year, the last day of the winter holidays, and the day that Harry will finally return to Hogwarts.

Cedric has practically been counting down to it. He has plenty of friends that he spent time with during the break, of course, but aside from Lorelei he’s never been particularly close to any of them—and Harry, well, he’s in a category of his own entirely.

Whenever he talks to Harry he regularly finds himself opening up in a way he’s never done with anyone else before. Not even Lorelei, who doesn’t always understand the pressure he’s put under because it’s such a natural state for her to be in. High expectations are things that feed her and empower her and challenge her to be better, rather than things that exhaust her and weigh her down and stress her out like they do to Cedric.

That being said, she’s not anywhere near as bad as Cedric’s circle of acquaintances and his father and sometimes even his teachers, who all have many, many, _many_ expectations of him, and the more he meets, the more they seem to multiply and build.

Be the perfect son, be the perfect role model, be the perfect friend, the perfect student, the perfect athlete, the perfect wizard—

Harry has no such expectations, aside from perhaps being given care and affection which he tends to soak up like a sponge. Cedric can be himself around Harry without constantly watching his words and his facial expressions and his body language in case he does something that’s _out of line_ with the expectations, because they don’t really exist with Harry.

Keeping that in mind, perhaps it’s not so odd a thing for Cedric to be pacing up and down the corridor on the third floor that looks out over the entrance of the school, waiting for his boyfriend to return.

When he catches himself doing it after a pair of girls passing by him giggles at him for it, he feels embarrassed, but only slightly. In his head he can’t help but sardonically equate himself with an overly eager puppy waiting for its owner to come home. It’s just that he’s gotten so used to seeing Harry at least a little while once a day that the sudden two week break in between feels far too long.

“Oy, Cedric!” A small group of Hufflepuffs at the end of the corridor, among them Wally, call out to him as they approach, and Cedric has to actively suppress the groan he almost lets slip at the sight of them.

Wally grins widely as Cedric waves back in greeting. “Still waiting? That boy’s really got you on a leash, doesn’t he?”

Cedric settles for groaning internally instead.

“Shove off, Walter,” a very tall, blond-haired girl among them in the same year as Cedric, Amanda Porter, tells Wally off. “I happen to think it’s adorable that he wants to greet his boyfriend.”

“Amanda, we talked about this!” Wally admonishes playfully. “You don’t call a bloke adorable. It’s just not done.”

“I’m not on a leash, Randall. I’m just waiting for Harry,” Cedric cuts in wryly, ignoring how apt the phrase is considering the puppy-comparison he made in his own head not a minute ago. “No wonder you couldn’t hold a girlfriend for longer than two weeks, with that attitude.”

“Oooh!”

“You gonna let that one slide, Wally?”

“What’s he gonna do, tell off _Cedric_?”

Even if Wally looks somewhat embarrassed at the tease, it’s all in good fun—it comes with the more typical male posturing that people have come to expect of him. Letting one of the guys tease you means the rest get to tease you as well, and Cedric isn’t supposed to be the type of student that gets pestered by his peers.

In a moment of disinterest as Wally tries coming up with a rebuttal Cedric casually glances out the window again, not expecting anything to have changed, when he sees a row of students heading down the path towards the entrance.

Among them Harry is walking near the middle, Ron’s hair standing out like a beacon next to him as they trudge through the snow.

“Sorry guys, I’ve got to run!” Cedric decides immediately, turning around without another glance towards the group that laughs and jeers at his hasty departure as he quickly makes his way toward the stairs leading down to the entrance hall.

He doesn’t _intend_ to sprint, not really, but by the time he’s halfway down the steps he’s already jumping nearly half a stair out of sheer impatience and running through the hallway at such a pace that he nearly topples over Professor Flitwick, hastily apologising to the man before continuing on around the corner and arriving at the entrance hall, where the great doors have only just opened and students are meandering inside.

He finds Harry among the crowd easily enough, though Harry has yet to see him, and notices at once that something is off.

His eyes are downcast and have dark circles underneath, shoulders hunched slightly, and he barely seems to be talking to Ron or Hermione who don’t look any happier or talkative than Harry is, walking on either side of him. Ron seems in an almost equally bad mood, brooding about something and shrugging a lot at whatever Hermione says, who has a deep furrow between her brows and casts worried looks at Harry every now and then.

Cedric doesn’t immediately step towards them, taking the time to observe and wonder what could’ve possibly happened for all three of them to be in such foul spirits. Last he talked to Harry he did seem a little troubled, but more so excited and happy about going back home for Christmas with his friends. It was supposed to have been a wonderful holiday for him, some peace of mind after all that happened the past year.

It’s not until the trio approach the corridor leading to the stairs to Gryffindor Tower that Hermione is the first to notice Cedric. She prods Harry with her elbow, who looks up in question and then follows her gaze to finally spot Cedric waiting for him.

The flash of surprise on Harry’s face doesn’t go unnoticed by Cedric before it’s replaced by a smile that eyes a bit weary all the same. Hermione and Ron politely hang back a bit as Harry approaches him, and Cedric can’t bring himself to smile back. He doesn’t want to pretend that he’s not concerned when he is, very much so—pretending is something he does with _other_ people. Not with Harry.

Even so, the first thing he does as Harry comes to a hesitant stand-still in front of him, hovering on the edge of his personal space with uncertainty, is pull him into a hug.

“Hi,” Cedric murmurs into his hair. Harry’s cheek feels cold against his neck, fingers tight in the back of Cedric’s outer robe.

“Hi,” Harry replies, voice muffled against Cedric’s shoulder. He even _sounds_ tired, lingering in the embrace for several seconds longer than he usually does, sighing deeply. When he pulls back, however, he looks at least a little less exhausted.

“Everything alright, Harry?” Cedric asks, brushing a few of Harry’s wild locks of hair out of his eyes. He’s really due a haircut.

“Yeah, just…” Harry trails off awkwardly, eyes landing on a spot on Cedric’s shoulder before he looks amused. “Were you rushing to meet me?”

“What?” Cedric looks down at himself, noticing his scarf has somehow wound up tossed over his shoulder—probably because of all the jumping off the stairs. “Well, I wasn’t… I wasn’t _rushing_. It was windy.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Inside?”

“I was outside!”

“Without a coat?”

“Okay, fine,” Cedric concedes, to Harry’s great satisfaction. “I might have jumped down a few stairs—but that’s not what we should be talking about, is it?”

Harry’s pleased grin all but evaporates off his lips and he looks away from Cedric, glancing down at his feet. “Everything’s fine.”

He’s hiding something, it’s _painfully_ obvious he’s lying, and for a moment Cedric is at a complete loss on what to do or say. He doesn’t want to pressure Harry, but whatever this is, it’s been bothering him since before Christmas and it seems to have only gotten worse.

It’s so bizarre to think you know the workings of a relationship when it all gets turned upside down with a single sentence. Harry has never hidden anything from him before; always open about his thoughts and opinions and feelings and even his abusive childhood. This seems so unlike him, to start keeping secrets.

And he can’t help being a bit hurt by it, because it feels like a door that was otherwise always open for him just got slammed shut right in his face.

“Are you sure?” he asks carefully, not wanting to pressure him or try and coerce him into an answer. Just because they’re dating doesn’t mean that Harry doesn’t have the right to his own secrets, but this is clearly something that’s weighing down on him and it’s frustrating to think he’s cutting off any way for Cedric to help.

“Look, I… it’s complicated right now,” Harry replies uneasily, avoiding his eyes, perhaps even realising that what he’s doing is hurting Cedric. “I can’t talk about it.”

“Why not?” And Cedric doesn’t mean to try and guilt him, doesn’t do it consciously, but the knee-jerk reaction happens anyway. “Don’t you trust me with it?”

Harry looks up at him then with wide eyes, a bit of colour seeming to drain from his face, Cedric not quite understanding the impact his words have had.

“Of course I trust you!” Harry all but snaps, though Cedric has the feeling the anger isn’t directed towards him as Harry looks away again, jaw clenching. “I’m not like _him_ ; I don’t keep secrets because I want to, or because—”

“Him?” Cedric remarks sharply, and Harry appears startled, as if he’d forgotten he was still in a conversation with Cedric. “Who’s _him_?”

“Nothing—no one! I was just… just talking to myself.”

“Harry, what’s going on with you?”

“Really, it’s nothing—”

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week,” Cedric insists with a frown, pressing a hand against Harry’s cheek, thumb tracing over the dark shadow below one of his eyes, underneath his glasses.

“Cedric, please, this really isn’t the right time,” Harry says, looking fatigued to the point of where Cedric is worried that if he were to lie down on a bed he might never want to get back up. “I have to go talk to Professor Dumbledore about something important, okay? I haven’t even sorted everything out yet myself, so…”

“That’s odd,” Cedric notes, pulling his hand back from Harry’s face who almost moves with it, having leaned into his touch. “Dumbledore asked me a few days ago to tell you to go up to his office once you returned.”

Harry suddenly looks more alert at that, but also a lot grimmer as opposed to merely tired. “Right, then I probably shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

Something serious has definitely happened, and Cedric is being kept completely in the dark about it. He glances over at Ron and Hermione, who’ve now gotten into a conversation with their fellow Housemates, probably talking about the Yule Ball. He doesn’t want to measure himself up to Harry’s two closest friends, but from their equally sour moods it appears he’s trusted _them_ with whatever’s been going on.

So why not him?

Cedric thinks about it for a moment—can feel that he’s starting to shrink back into his shell—and opens his mouth to lie and pretend that it’s fine, that Harry doesn’t _have_ to trust him with it.

And of course that’s when Harry grabs a tight hold of his hand, startling green eyes peering right into his, and says, “I’ll tell you everything once I know exactly what’s going on. I promise.”

Cedric all but sighs in relief at that, nodding once in understanding. “Alright, if you have to—ow!” Just as Harry tries twining their fingers together he feels a very unpleasant sting in his fingertips, like needles being struck through the skin and underneath his nails, prompting him to quickly pull his hand out of Harry’s on reflex.

“What? What’s wrong?” Harry glances down at the hand Cedric pulled back, appearing confused when he sees no visible injuries. And he wouldn’t, considering it’s of the more magical sort.

Cedric’s been having these flashes of pain periodically ever since he touched the diary—usually few and far enough in-between that he’s been able to ignore it, and none so painful as the one he’s had just now.

Two days ago he went back to Madam Pomfrey to ask about it, and she performed a small test with her wand. The moment the tip touched his fingers, red sparks flew off the edges of his skin, and she concluded with great concern that he had _somehow_ caught a rather powerful residue of unstable and dark magic.

Without knowing the source, it was hard to deal with safely. Luckily for him the magic was weak and seemed to be fading, but it would take a while for it to wear off completely.

“Nothing terrible,” Cedric responds to Harry, lowering his hand. “Just touched a cursed diary a few days ago, been having pain in my hand ever since. Madam Pomfrey said it would disappear on its own, though I think maybe I should see if I can track it… Harry?”

If Harry looked pale before, then he looks positively ashen now. “A diary?” he repeats faintly.

“Yes, why?”

“Do you know where it is?” Harry asks urgently. “Or who has it now?”

“Professor Moody dropped it; I wanted to pick it up for him and ended up branded with its magic,” Cedric answers, still not understanding how any of this links up at all. “Why, Harry? What’s all this about?”

“Sorry, I-I really need to go see Dumbledore now.” Harry quickly glances back to Ron and Hermione who seem preoccupied, so in a hurry he doesn’t even seem to want to walk a few steps back to tell them where he’s going.

Cedric really does not like all this secrecy that seems to have come out of left field, least of all because a cursed object seems to be involved, which is nearing into a far more dangerous territory than he’s comfortable with. “Harry—”

“I’ve got to go,” Harry interrupts, and Cedric can’t in good conscience stop him when he looks so stricken. Before he leaves, he reaches up, briefly balancing on his tip-toes to give Cedric a peck on the lips, saying, “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Realising nothing he can say will change Harry’s mind, Cedric finally relents. “The password is ice mice.”

Harry nods gratefully, then he turns away and leaves, practically running towards the stairs and up the steps, leaving Cedric by himself with the blistering pain in his fingertips which only seems to grow worse instead of recede as it usually does.

Whatever is going on, he has a very bad feeling about it—a cursed diary, and a stranger who apparently has betrayed Harry’s trust in some way or another. Apparently the matter is so severe Dumbledore himself is involved, and yet here Cedric is, without a clue of what’s going on and unable to piece it all together with just shreds of vague information.

He glances down at the fingertips of his left hand, looking up briefly to the thinning crowd of students lingering in the Entrance Hall. Ron and Hermione have their backs turned to him, still chatting with other Gryffindor students. He considers his next course of action only for a moment.

Cedric quietly moves away, and towards the stairs leading up to Moody’s classroom.

* * *

It never stopped.

The pain throbs still, spindly fingers burying themselves into his mind in some effort to entrap him, trying to breach through even after days have passed and he’s hundreds of miles away and he should be _safe_ , but perhaps that was too naive a thought.

It’s not just in his head anymore; it’s spread inside him like a disease, every part of him burning, every inch of him being torn at in some endless assault, and all he can do is endure it. Wait it out. Hope Voldemort tires of it, gives up, as unlikely as it is.

 _‘There’s nothing more I can do,’_ Harry’s Horcrux says to him as he’s shut himself away into his diary and there is still no reprieve, no mercy. _‘He’s aware of you now, and you are his Horcrux—no matter where you are or where you go, he won’t stop. Not until he bends you to his will.’_

Shadows are creeping and crawling at the edges of the diary. Eyes watching, mouths laughing, a rope coiling around his neck, a snake slithering down his throat, tiny hands underneath his skin trying to take him apart from the inside out; just a few of the vivid nightmares trapping him in a corner, and not the worst of what he’s had to endure.

It’s the incessant whispering in his head that makes it all the more horrid, trying to persuade him or break him—whichever comes first.

 _We could accomplish so much together, Tom._ **Submit, and the pain will cease.** _You understand why I have to do this, don’t you?_ **I can make it worse, so much worse.** _I do not wish to hurt you this way, but you’re giving me no choice._ **Stop resisting me, foolish boy.** _This is for your own good._ **This is for your own good.**

**_This is for your own good._ **

He feels sick to his core, helpless, _powerless_ , violated, at the mercy of a force he underestimated, and there is no end in sight. Nothing but this torment, until his will finally falters and whatever he was before disappears, consumed by Lord Voldemort—there will be nothing left of him then but a puppet, a mindless weapon.

 _‘There’s nothing I can do,’_ Harry’s Horcrux repeats, _‘but there might be something_ you  _can do_.’

What is it, Tom thinks because speaking hurts too much as he claws at his arms, worms wriggling through his veins and crawling into his insides.What is it? What do I have to do? I’ll do anything, _anything_ —

_‘Your existence depends on him—as much as you are a safeguard protecting him from death, his Horcrux, he is the source of your very being, the source of your power, your magic, everything you started with no matter how much it has changed in the past two years.’_

Then how do I fight him? How do I cut him off? There has to be a way—

 _‘First,’_ the Horcrux says, and Tom can feel it smiling in a rather sinister sort of way, not so benevolent as he’s used to it being, _‘find another source, and shield yourself with it. Become your own—a person, no longer a Horcrux.'_

The image of Crouch touching the cover of the diary flashes before his eyes, and then Tom understands.

* * *

Harry knocks twice on the door to the Headmaster’s office, entering when he hears Dumbledore call for him to come in, heart beating erratically in his chest, almost dizzied with the amount of information in his head that hasn’t let him sleep for nearly a week.

When he walks inside he spots the Headmaster already sitting behind his desk, looking not at all surprised as Harry approaches.

“Good afternoon, Harry,” Dumbledore greets him, not with his usual pleasant cheer, but rather with a troubled wrinkle between his brows. “I take it you have something to tell me?”

Harry nods mutely, feeling an intense sense of guilt for having lied to the man before, for keeping secrets and not being smarter, thinking he could handle it himself, still trying to protect someone who lied to him from the very start.

“Would you like to sit down, first?” Dumbledore prompts kindly, gesturing to the seat in front of his desk. “No doubt it will be quite the story.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees with a weak laugh as he settles down in the comfortably cushioned chair. “That’s an understatement.”

* * *

Cedric climbs up the spiralling staircase, the burning in his hand growing worse and worse the more he goes up, as if the magic staining his fingertips is reacting the nearer it comes to the diary.

He hopes Professor Moody will let him show it to Madam Pomfrey—he’s not sure he’ll be able to pay any attention during Moody’s classes if his fingers continuously feel like he’s holding them into Fiendfyre. Not to mention that he might be able to coax some answers out of the man, particularly what Harry has to do with any of this. Moody was obliging enough to help him solve the puzzle of the Egg, so maybe he’ll be amenable to giving up some information on this strange mystery as well.

By the time he reaches the top and steps into the small corridor, the door to Moody’s classroom right in front of him, his magic-tainted hand is shaking and he feels slightly out of breath. Clasping the wrist of his hand tightly with the other, he steps towards the door with determination, trying his best to ignore the pain for the moment.

Just as he briefly releases his own wrist and reaches for the doorknob, the sound of hushed voices makes him pause.

* * *

“I didn’t know,” Harry stresses, mouth dry with how much he’s told already but he can’t stop talking now that he’s started. “It’s not an excuse, but if I’d known that he murdered someone, that he hurt other people… when I first found out he was a Horcrux I thought that had to be the worst of it, but the more I go looking for answers the worse it gets. I don’t know what to do.”

Dumbledore looks more stern than Harry has ever seen him, only increasing his worry that he’s done something terribly wrong or that he, in his ignorance, allowed for something horrible to happen.

“You are not to blame for this, Harry,” Dumbledore says to him, trying very hard to impress it upon him with a reassuring gaze. “Your intentions were pure, and once you realised the severity of the situation, you did the right thing in coming to me. I have many other things to tell you, most of all the truth of who Tom Riddle is, but unfortunately that conversation will have to wait for later.”

Harry watches, flustered, as Dumbledore suddenly rises from his seat. “Sir?”

“It is imperative that we retrieve the diary as soon as possible,” the Headmaster explains. “You should stay here, Harry. I will be back shortly.”

At this, Harry bolts up from his seat. “Wait! I want to talk to him.” Dumbledore watches him with some curiosity, and some sympathy that makes Harry feel embarrassed—he’s in no position to make demands from the Headmaster, least of all because he’s let this gone on for so long, but he can’t just let this go. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t want to hear the truth from you; I want to hear it from _him_. He owes me at least that much.”

Dumbledore seems to think on it for a moment, before nodding.

“Very well, then—let us go have a chat with Tom, together.”

* * *

_“Give me your hand,”_ Cedric hears a young man say, certainly no one that he recognises. _“Your hand_ , _Crouch,”_ the young man repeats in an impatient hiss, bemusing Cedric even further.

Crouch, as in Bartemius Crouch, Head of International Magical Cooperation? Who is this other person speaking? Where is Moody? What are they doing in his classroom?

 _“My apologies for my hesitance, my Lord,”_ the man who was named as Crouch replies, but he sounds exactly like Moody. That is Moody, isn’t it? That gruff voice is unmistakable, and yet the other person in the room definitely called them Crouch, Cedric is sure he didn’t mishear. And _my Lord_? Crouch might have been a pureblood, but he was not a master of any noble House. _“Of course, whatever you need. You will take only a little bit?”_

What on earth is going on here? Take _what_?

 _“Yes, only a little,”_ the young man confirms, and Cedric inches quietly closer to the door.

He listens patiently, reluctant to intrude when he still has no idea what’s going on inside. If that really is Crouch, then either Cedric’s hearing is completely off and he mistook the voice, or the voice is being impersonated, _Moody_ is being impersonated.

It is not so ridiculous an idea on its own; his father sometimes came home from the Ministry with stories from his Auror friends about cases of identity theft, but why would Bartemius Crouch be impersonating Moody, for what purpose—

A loud _bang_ shatters through the silence and Cedric nearly jumps away from the door, instinctively pulling out his wand as a pained groan sounds from the classroom, and then, a choked laugh.

 _“So this was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”_ Moody mocks, voice sounding somewhat stifled. “ _Go ahead then… go ahead and kill me.”_

After hearing that, Cedric can stay still no longer.

He takes a step back, and aims his wand at the door, hoping the spell he has in mind will catch the assailant off-guard and alert others to what is happening, ideally getting the attention of a teacher nearby. 

If not, well, he'll have to do this alone.

_‘Bombarda!’_

* * *

Halfway down the corridor, Harry is barely keeping up with Dumbledore’s long strides and surprisingly fast pace, deciding to go at a slow jog to keep up since walking fast has him lagging behind.

Dumbledore seems focused on getting to their destination, and has an air around him Harry has never seen before—that of a _very_ powerful wizard, one on a mission. Students in the hallways part and get out of his way instinctively as he approaches, Harry following closely and ignoring their curious stares.

Just as they near the stairs leading up to Moody’s classroom, there’s a loud booming sound that shakes through the walls and floors of the castle, making both of them pause for a moment.

Its location is unmistakable.

Dumbledore does not even turn towards the students that are even more shaken up by the sudden noise—he continues right on his way, walking even faster now.

Harry just hopes it isn’t as bad as he fears.

* * *

The first thing Cedric sees after he blasts the door off its hinges is Moody lying on the ground, bleeding from his wrist, and a young man bent over him with his hand around it, looking up at Cedric with a furious glare and getting up from the floor, the hand he had around Moody’s wrist dripping with blood.

“Oh, _you_ ,” he sneers, seeming to recognise him and not the least bit intimidated by Cedric’s wand aimed at his face. “Of course it would be _you_.”

“Get away from him,” Cedric replies calmly as he gestures to the side of the classroom with his wand, even if inwardly bemused by the scene he just witnessed.

It almost looked as if the young man was trying to stem the bleeding with his hand, not kill—not to mention that the fact this stranger knows him when Cedric is sure he’s never seen him before is somewhat perturbing.

Glancing down at the Slytherin robes, Cedric instantly notices something is off; they’re too old-fashioned, different from the robes they wear nowadays. An infiltrator?

“You don’t want to help him,” the young man says with an irritated frown, glancing toward Moody and not moving away. “He’s an impostor.”

“I’ll let the Aurors figure that one out,” Cedric replies unflinchingly. 

He’s so fixated on the stranger that he doesn’t notice Moody grabbing his wand from where he’s lying in a pool of his own blood, not until it’s too late.

There’s a flash of green heading straight for him, and for a moment he thinks, _this is it—_ until a sudden force of magic slams into Cedric from the front and throws him into a desk, making him avoid the Killing Curse by a hair’s breadth.

Cedric blinks, briefly dazed as he quickly raises his wand as soon as he gains his bearings again, hearing Moody laughing in a hoarse, slightly mad way. When Cedric looks up he sees the stranger standing over the man again, glaring down at Moody, but otherwise not doing anything else, almost as if he's waiting for something.

This is a bit too much to deal with all at once. Cedric carefully feels the back of his head that hit the edge of the desk, fairly certain he's bleeding, feeling it trickle down his neck. What just happened? What is happening? Taking a deep breath, he tries sorting it all out in his head, one by one, before making another move.

First, this Moody is apparently an impostor—he almost killed Cedric just now, so that seems good enough confirmation on that end.

Second, from the conversation he overheard _before_ bursting through the door, these two men appeared initially to be in league with each other, until the younger one betrayed the impostor.

Third, he has no idea who the younger man is, or why he betrayed the fake Moody, or what sort of deal they had going on in the first place.

Fourth, he has no idea who the fake Moody is either—he can’t be Crouch. What motive would Crouch have to take out Moody and fake his identity?

Fifth, he suspects the blow of magic that hurled him out of the trajectory of the spell was from the young stranger, even though Cedric can’t see any wand on him. Wandless magic? It’s supposed to be an incredibly rare ability. He doesn't know _why_ he was saved, however, and is reluctant to throw his lot in with an infiltrator who might have had ulterior motives in saving him in the first place. 

Keeping this all in mind, it’s probably a good idea to keep his guard up and try to stall for time. He’s sure a teacher is already on their way and will be here soon.

“As I said,” the young stranger sneers then, disgusted gaze still aimed at the dying man below him, “he isn’t Alastor Moody. He’s a Death Eater posing as him—Bartemius Crouch Jr.”

“A Death Eater? Crouch _Jr_?” Cedric repeats faintly. It would make sense as to why the young man called him Crouch before, but isn’t Crouch Jr. supposed to be dead, passed away in Azkaban?

“You… you think you’re so _clever,”_ Crouch or Moody or neither hisses then, voice strained, slightly higher pitched, and his face—the skin of his face is starting to _ripple_. “Lord Voldemort warned me, he warned me you’d try something like this… I’ve failed him… no matter… he will return… with or without you, he will return!”

“Shut up and die faster,” the young man scoffs, leaning down, fingers digging into the cut on the impostor’s wrist as Cedric watches in mute shock.

The young man turns to him, opens his mouth to say something else, and that is the exact moment Albus Dumbledore strides through the doorway with _Harry_ right behind him, the young man’s mouth still open but now an expression of horror on his face, Cedric still dizzied by the turn of events. Before the stranger can do anything Dumbledore already has his wand pointed at him and the stranger is lifted off his feet and pushed against the wall by an invisible force with a grunt, keeping his wrists harmlessly pressed against the stone.

“Cedric? What are you doing here?” Harry, shocked at seeing him, is by his side in a second, and outside the classroom students are starting to gather—he can hear Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall yelling at them to stand aside, Dumbledore’s attention entirely focused on the stranger, and on the floor Crouch Jr. is cackling like mad, still bleeding out and his face taking on the shape of someone much younger.

Cedric takes the scene in, and in the silence that follows this insane sequence of events, really only has one question.

“What in the utter _hell_ is going on?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU THOUGHT THE TRAINWRECK WAS OVER?
> 
>   _ **WRONG!!!** _
> 
>  THE TRAINWRECK IS _NEVER_ OVER!


	30. Chapter 30

Harry doesn’t know what he was expecting. Going up the stairs, right behind Dumbledore, a hundred different scenarios were racing through his head, mainly of what he’d say to Tom once he found him, what he should ask first. Nothing prepared him for the strange, delirious man bleeding out on the floor of Moody’s classroom, and Cedric sitting in the corner, a trickle of blood running down the back of his neck from a wound on his head.

Even while his first reaction is to tend to Cedric, hands comfortingly slotting together, he can’t help but look at Tom—now suspended against the wall, looking slightly wild with his dishevelled hair, his unnaturally pallid face glistening with sweat.

Tom does not look back at Harry. His gaze is singularly focused in a furious glare on the Headmaster who is, comfortingly, the picture of calm in an otherwise mad situation.

The students who have followed the commotion and are now congregated at the door are blocked off by Professor Snape and McGonagall, the latter of which is sternly ordering them to stay out of the classroom and the former who stalks inside, eyes darting from the man on the floor, to Tom, to Harry and Cedric, before resting expectantly on Dumbledore.

“Minerva,” Dumbledore says after a moment of silence, both gaze and wand fixed unflinchingly on Tom, voice somehow carrying over all the noise of excited whispers and murmuring from the crowd right out the threshold of the classroom. “Please instruct the students outside to return to their common rooms for the evening. Severus—if you could tend to Mr. Crouch and take a look at Cedric.”

“Crouch?” Harry repeats in confusion, looking at the man with a wide grin on his face, uncontrollably laughing to himself, though his voice grows weaker by the second. Snape does as he’s told while McGonagall repairs the busted door on its hinges and grants them privacy, approaching the injured man with quick strides and kneeling beside him.

Crouch coughs a weak laugh. “You’re… you’re going to try and save me, are you, Severus?” The grin fades from his face and turns at once vicious. “Traitor _filth_!”

The Potions Professor ignores him completely and briefly examines the wound on Crouch’s wrist as he pulls out his wand, muttering a spell almost too soft for Harry to hear thrice over.

“ _Vulnera Sanetur.”_  Nothing happens. “ _Finite Incantatem—Vulnera Sanetur.”_ Again, nothing.

Snape looks up at the Headmaster with a grim look. “Whatever spell inflicted this on him is still in effect; I am unable to break it.”

“Not a spell,” Tom announces, glaring down at the dying man, and even bound to the wall by invisible magic he still maintains an air of condescension, sneering at his victim. “A ritual; his life in exchange for mine. It’s too late for him now.”

Crouch turns his snarl on Tom, jaw clenching, eyes starting to slip shut even while he tries keeping them open. “You complete and utter fool—you think… you think you’ll be safe now?” he spits. “You think he won’t find you? He will. He’ll come for you, he’ll come for you all. Once the Dark Lord returns… once he….”

His lips stop moving, eyes sliding shut in a final hiss of breath, head thumping against the ground.

He’s dead.

Harry stares unblinkingly at the corpse that was just a _second_ ago a living, breathing human being, head spinning with the identity of this now dead man.

A follower of Voldemort—possibly a Death Eater—here at Hogwarts? And what does Tom have to do with all of this, why is Voldemort after him? How many secrets has Tom been keeping from him? Harry finds himself repeating the question Cedric just asked a minute ago: what on earth is going on?

He’s barely able to keep up as Snape moves over towards them, bending down next to Cedric and instructing him to turn his head so he can look at the wound. Harry feels fingers squeeze around his hand and tears his gaze away from Tom to his boyfriend who looks at him in worry and Harry only then notices how hard he’s breathing, how his hand is trembling in Cedric’s.

“It’s okay, Harry,” Cedric murmurs, thumb rubbing soothingly over the back of his hand and Harry exhales shakily. “Just breathe.”

Someone makes a disgusted noise, a derisive “hmph”, and Harry turns his numbed gaze to Tom, just in time to catch his head turning away from them and back to Dumbledore.

“If you’ll notice,” Tom says as his voice shakes and he glances to Crouch lying dead on the floor, “I did you quite a favour just now.”

“Be that as it may, Tom, you understand that I cannot simply let you go,” Dumbledore responds evenly.

“So you’ll kill me?” he spits venomously, sheer hatred in his eyes. “You’ll murder me? I’m not a Horcrux any longer; there would be no point!”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows arch slightly. “And yet you are who you are, part of a whole that even prior to the creation of the Horcruxes was willing to murder innocents to accomplish his goals. You’ve manipulated and lied to Harry for your own purposes, all in the pursuit of acquiring your own body—for what reason, if not to aid your creator?”

“I’m not _him_!” Tom erupts, wrists pressing back against the magic holding them down but not quite managing to lift from the wall. “I didn’t ask to be created!”

Harry can’t take it anymore, letting go of Cedric’s hand whose head-wound has by now been healed by Snape and slowly rising up from the ground. “Who’s him?”

Tom isn’t looking at him, eyes turned away, jaw clenching. Harry can feel it crawling in his skin, an ugly truth rooting its weeds into his insides, into his chest, making it hard to even tell if his heart is beating anymore or if it has stopped, a noise in his head like a ringing in his eardrums.

“Who’s _him_ , Tom?”

Tom still refuses to look at him, and for the first time, Harry feels scared of his answer. “I don’t owe you any—”

“LOOK AT ME!” The blood rushing in his head feels like a great big wave crashing against his skull, his throat strained with his scream and Tom looks at him then, eyes wide. Not even the hand on the back of his neck offers Harry any comfort. “WHO’S _HIM?_ ”

Tom’s mouth slowly opens, closes again, lips pursing in a thin line. He says nothing.

“Aren’t you going to answer him, Tom?” Dumbledore asks as if they were only having a simple conversation about Quidditch and Tom lowers his gaze to the floor, eyes squeezing shut for a moment and Harry has never seen him like this before—conflicted, unsure, as if his control of everything he thought right in the palms of his hands is slipping and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

After a long, tortuous moment he looks up at Harry, decided in stony resolution, and he says, “When I was a student here at Hogwarts many decades ago, I spent hours upon hours trying to uncover my family lineage, my heritage. I looked mostly for any records on my father, hoping to find something to prove he had attended Hogwarts as I had. I was convinced that he was a wizard, as I’d known my mother had rather pathetically died of childbirth at the time and no witch, I thought, would be pitiful enough to succumb to such an ignominious death.

“As it turned out, it was _she_ who was the magical one, and my father the muggle. I searched for records on my maternal family using the middle name she gave me, eventually uncovering the truth, and abandoned my old name for one far more befitting the heir of Salazar Slytherin.

“Even before I created my Horcruxes,” Tom continues, nearing the end and Harry can hardly understand the words coming out of his mouth, thinks this must all be one sick joke, “even before I tracked down my remaining relatives, killing my father and his parents, framing my maternal uncle for the deed and sentencing him to rot in Azkaban, even before I opened the Chamber of Secrets and used the basilisk to kill a muggleborn student at Hogwarts named Myrtle Warren, I had already traded my name.”

He pauses, but he shouldn’t have had to, because Harry already knows what he’s going to say before he says it.

“From that point on, Tom Marvolo Riddle was no more.” Tom stares directly into Harry’s eyes, face blank of expression, of emotion as he finally says: “In his place, came Lord Voldemort.”

The edge of a desk hits his back, clammy hands barely managing to cling to the wood as bile rises to his throat and he presses his palm over his mouth in abject horror and nausea as it finally starts sinking in that all this time the person he trusted all his secrets to, the person he saw as a friend and a teacher and placed his trust in time and time again, the person he once _adored_ in a boyish way and fell in love with and never quite stopped falling in love with even while uncovering all the lies—

The same person that was the part of a soul who once fourteen years ago on a dark Halloween night walked into a family home, murdering James and Lily Potter in cold blood and leaving their son orphaned and destined for a childhood of utter misery.

Harry feels sick, _sick_ in his own skin.

His legs give out and he sinks onto the chair next to the desk, taking off his glasses with quivering fingers and burying his face into his hands, wishing—to fate, to a deity, to whatever force out there—that it could all just be a nightmare, that he could wake up two years ago in his second year at Hogwarts and never have found the diary, blissfully oblivious.

“That was rather forthcoming of you, Tom,” Dumbledore speaks, his voice sounding distant to Harry, as if spoken far, far away. “One might almost get the impression that you’re attempting to turn over a new leaf.”

“I’ve told you once before; I’m not him,” Tom says, quietly adding: “He’s better off dead.”

“Oh?”

“You’re lying.” Harry lowers his hands, breathing in deep, Cedric’s fingers squeezing gently into his shoulder and his presence by Harry’s side the only thing keeping him together at all as he looks at Tom, and repeats. “You’re _lying_.”

“What use would lying do me now?” Tom says, but there’s no venom in his words nor his eyes, not like there is when he looks at Dumbledore. “I understand full-well that my word is hardly going to matter, so I propose this—allow me to live, guarantee me a limited amount of freedom, and I’ll help you find and destroy all the remaining Horcruxes.”

“Quite bold, to assume you’re in the position of negotiating for your life at all,” Dumbledore remarks coolly, and Harry—feeling it seething in his blood—can’t keep it silent for another moment.

“Why don’t we just lock him up and throw away the key?” he asks, voice trembling with suppressed rage. “He’s _Voldemort_ , isn’t he?”

“I used to be, before he ripped his soul apart and separated us. At best I am a part of him, but the fact that I’m more interested in getting rid of him than joining him should tell you enough. And you think it a wonder why I didn’t tell you before, when this is your reaction?” Tom scoffs at him without any real bite. “You were always too emotional for your own good.”

“SHUT UP! JUST  _SHUT UP_!" Harry bolts from his seat, instinctively pulling out his wand—to do what, he’s not sure, but Cedric grabs his wrist and forces it down before a spell can come to mind. 

“Don’t,” Cedric hisses in warning, gently pushing him back. “Cool down. Let the Headmaster handle this.”

“What would you have had me do, Harry?” Tom continues coldly. “Just tell you, as if you wouldn’t have been disgusted and infuriated and hated me, as if you wouldn’t have given me up to Dumbledore in a heartbeat?”

“If you’d been honest from the start,” Harry says to him, heartbeat pounding furiously to the thrum of fury boiling in his veins, “if you hadn’t tried manipulating me, if you’d actually tried fixing this on your own, if you’d actually had any remorse for anything you’ve ever done for even a second in your _fucking_ life, I would have given you a chance—because you were my friend and I was actually STUPID enough to trust you, _I would have given you a chance_!”

Tom scoffs, but it’s a weak gesture as he turns his head away from Harry again, saying nothing in reply. Harry, in turn, exhales and feels at once as if he hasn’t rested in years, limbs feeling too tired to move. Cedric comes to stand in front of him, blocking his view of Tom and wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders who lets his head rest against Cedric’s chest, so fatigued he can’t even bring himself to hug Cedric back.

It’s too much to deal with, all at once. He just wants to curl up under the covers of his bed and sleep for a very, very long time.

“No need to look so desolate, Tom,” Harry hears Dumbledore say then. “There may still be a way to prove you are worthy of redemption.”

“I assume my choice here is between that or a trip to Azkaban, isn’t it?” Tom replies after a moment, his voice hoarse, grating against Harry’s ears. “Out with it, then.”

“No truth serum would be sufficient in proving your sincerity or to judge you with,” Dumbledore elaborates calmly. “But there is one way I am aware of that would be impossible, even for you, to manipulate.”

Tom has gone very, very quiet.

“Open up your mind to me, Tom, and I might consider your proposal.”

Harry pulls away from Cedric in confusion at this new development, his boyfriend looking towards Dumbledore in surprise. “Legilimency?” Cedric says quietly, then quickly clarifying to a puzzled Harry, “It’s a little like mind-reading, but a lot more... well, involved.” 

“Quite right,” Dumbledore confirms, and when Harry glances over Cedric’s shoulder to Tom, the young man looks pale as a sheet, for the first time a frightened expression flitting over his features.

“You have no idea what you’re asking.”

“On the contrary, I think I do.” Dumbledore takes a few steps towards Tom, still hanging off the wall, and pulls a chair with him, sitting down right in front of the young man and looking up at him with an inscrutable gaze.

Tom breathes in deep, his hands shaking, straining against invisible bonds. “How can I trust that you won’t do something to manipulate my thoughts, my memories?”

“You don’t,” the Headmaster replies mildly. “You lost that right a long time ago, Tom. This is the only way for me to measure how much you can be relied upon, if at all, and your only way out of indefinite imprisonment.” His stare slides over to Harry and Cedric, turning considerably softer. “Perhaps you should retire for the day, Harry. I’m sure you and Cedric have a lot to think about, and talk about.”

“But... I want to know what—”

The Headmaster raises a palm, and Harry falls at once silent. “Legilimency is a simple thing when one knows exactly what they’re looking for,” Dumbledore explains patiently. “To pick apart another’s mind entirely, however, is a much lengthier and exhaustive process. You’d do much better to get some rest in the meantime; I promise you will be the first to know as soon as I come to a decision.”

Harry almost wants to protest, but the day’s events have worn upon him to such an extent that he can hardly think of anything to say—and in truth, he’s more than eager to get as far away from Tom as possible, to have some time to think on it without this anger clouding his mind.

“C’mon,” Cedric says, clasping his hand and gently pulling him along toward the door. Harry lets himself be guided, relieved and most of all grateful for the support as he’s sure he would’ve collapsed without it.

Cedric, however, hesitates and comes to a standstill in front of the door, with his hand on the knob. Harry gives him a questioning look, and Cedric looks for a brief moment in doubt before he turns to Dumbledore.

“He did save my life earlier,” he says to the Headmaster, “when Crouch tried to kill me—for whatever that’s worth.”

Dumbledore nods and Cedric throws a wary glance Tom’s way before he opens the door and leads Harry out the classroom, the corridor now devoid of students. With any luck neither of them will have been glimpsed by any Housemates; Harry really doesn’t feel like being interrogated, or even being around other people right now.

When Cedric tries going for the stairs, Harry tugs his hand in another direction instead. His boyfriend looks a little confused, but doesn’t say anything as Harry pulls him towards the stairs going up to the seventh floor.

“Room of Requirement?” Cedric asks, and Harry looks at him in slight surprise. “The Hufflepuff Basement is right next to the kitchen; the house-elves there really like to help.” A slight pause. “Who did you…?”

“Tom,” Harry replies curtly. “Or should I call him Voldemort, now?”

Cedric flinches slightly at the name, or maybe at the sheer revulsion in Harry’s voice as he says it. “You had no way of knowing.”

“Why did you tell Dumbledore?” Harry asks without looking at Cedric, letting go of his hand as they go up the stairs. “That he saved you?”

“Because he did,” Cedric answers simply, and Harry casts him a scowling glance.

“He didn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart,” he mumbles. “He did it to look good.”

“Whatever his motivation, the fact of the matter is that I would be dead if he hadn’t pushed me out of the way.”

“He’s still Voldemort!” Harry explodes with outrage, coming to a halt on the stairs to look at Cedric in a mixture of anger and disbelief. “He _killed_ my parents, he—”

“Harry, just calm down and think about this for a moment,” Cedric interrupts quickly in an attempt to placate him before his temper gets out of hand. “As I understood it he used to be part of You-Know-Who’s soul, but he was separated somehow and clearly has different intentions if he wants to help Dumbledore destroy what _used_ to be himself. He even killed a Death Eater, even if it was to his own benefit.

“I get that he betrayed you and I’m not trying to minimise that, but you have to look at the bigger picture here—what better way to fight You-Know-Who than to use part of himself against him?”

Harry rubs a hand over his face, sighing in frustration. Of course he understands, and Cedric makes sense, but it hits too close and it’s still too fresh for him to look at it with a clear mind. He doesn't want to forgive anything, wants to stew in his anger, having been so utterly wronged and betrayed,  _betrayed_. It's too much.

“Fine, I just… I’ll let Dumbledore decide,” he says eventually, too tired to think about it any further. Cedric wraps an arm around his waist to pull him close, pressing a kiss against his temple, like cool water to a burn, and Harry can’t bring himself to stay angry at him.

The two boys continue to climb up to the seventh floor, where Harry summons the Room of Requirement in the form of a small, cosy bedroom with a very large four-poster bed sitting next to a softly crackling fireplace, dimly lit candles floating around the room and providing illumination as there are no windows. It's a small haven shielded from the world.

Harry kicks off his shoes and practically collapses on top of the soft, comfortable covers, taking off his glasses and setting them down on a nightstand next to the bed. He watches as Cedric walks around the bed to the other side, taking his time in pulling his shoes off before lying down next to Harry, who can barely make out his face from up close.

“Have I ever told you that you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen?” Cedric says, and Harry suddenly realises that this is the first time anyone has actually complimented him on his eyes—usually he only ever has people telling him they take after his mother’s.

“No, but feel free to keep telling me,” Harry murmurs back, fully prepared to not think of anything but the feel of Cedric’s hand resting on the side of his waist, right below his ribs. He needs some distraction, and it seems Cedric can tell as much.

“The colour reminds me of the grass out on the Quidditch field,” Cedric continues, his hand sliding onto the small of Harry’s back and pulling him closer, until he’s close enough to feel Cedric’s breath on his lips. “It’s the first thing I noticed about you when we met in the summer, the way the sun fell into your eyes.”

“I remember you staring at me. Was that why?” Cedric smiles slightly instead of responding, shifting just the slightest bit forward to kiss him briefly, soft and unassuming. “I thought you might’ve been holding a grudge against me for beating you in that match last year.”

“How could I?” Cedric responds quietly, pressing another kiss to his lips. “You’re a brilliant flier.”

“Do you remember the first time we kissed? _Really_ kissed?” Harry asks, kissing him back on the corner of his mouth. “You laughed at me.”

Cedric chuckles. “I couldn’t help it—you were a bit too enthusiastic, and clearly had no idea what you were doing.”

“Don’t I get any points for trying?”

“Maybe,” Cedric concedes in a mischievous tone that still feels a bit empty, “but I think you need more practice.”

Harry closes his eyes and Cedric kisses him again, far less chaste as what starts as an innocent peck devolves quickly into a mingle of lips and tongue. It's different, a need for mindless action without any thought, just a bit of relief from the insanity that still haunts the silence in between them. Harry’s fingers press lightly into the slight curve of Cedric’s hip as he presses closer, a hot breath exhaling sharply against his mouth.

“Harry,” Cedric whispers in-between kisses, and Harry ignores the tone of caution in his voice as he pushes against Cedric’s shoulder and manages to coax him onto his back, barely taking a breath as he keeps kissing him, desperate for more because he can’t quite get a certain face and a certain name and a certain voice out of his head.

“ _Harry,”_ Cedric repeats more urgently, turning his face away to break the kiss completely, but Harry simply moves his lips down to Cedric’s cheek, his jawline, kissing down to his neck and finding a spot right above his collarbone that has Cedric reflexively moving his head back with a sigh.

It’s not until Harry shifts, his knee slipping between Cedric’s legs and pressing against an obvious bulge, eliciting a soft gasp from his boyfriend, that he seems to cross a line.

“Harry!” Cedric hisses, both hands on Harry’s shoulders and pushing him away. Harry leans with his elbows on the bed, panting slightly as he frowns down at Cedric, not quite able to make out his expression, vision too blurry. There’s a brief silence, until Cedric says, “You’re still angry.”

Harry huffs out an impatient breath. “I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to—”

“No.”

“What d’you mean, no?” Harry asks, bewildered. “We were _just_ … you know!”

“I’m not going to be a mere distraction from your problems,” Cedric replies with a slight frown and Harry stares down toward the general vicinity of his face for a moment before letting out a groan and collapsing on top of him, feeling like a huge prat.

“Sorry,” he mutters into the crook of Cedric’s neck, feeling a hand brushing through his hair. “I just… you’re a really good kisser; I got carried away.”

Cedric snorts. “Nice save, Potter.”

“I don’t want to think about him.”

“I know you don’t.” A slight pause. “Were you two close?”

Harry can’t help but tense slightly, and he know Cedric feels it, considering he’s lying right on top of him. “Really close friends, I thought.”

“Just friends?”

Harry doesn’t say anything, but he thinks that must be an answer enough as he feels the nausea rear its head again, curling a hand into Cedric’s robes.

“It’s okay, you didn’t know,” Cedric says softly, fingers still brushing through his hair.

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Harry responds. “I still feel like—I don’t know. I’m just… just disgusted with myself, I guess.”

“Well.” Cedric’s hand pauses on the nape of his neck. “At least he’s not ugly.”

Harry pushes himself up to give Cedric an incredulous stare, his boyfriend bursting out into wild laughter as Harry half-wonders if he’s lost his mind. “How in the bloody hell are you _laughing_ about this?”

Cedric shakes his head, letting out a deep breath to get a grip on himself again. “It’s a coping mechanism. How else am I supposed to deal with it? You-Know-Who’s younger soul-piece or whatever he is just killed a man in front of me and then went on an insane rant about the people he murdered and something about a basilisk and whatever a Horcrux is. I still only understand half of what’s going on—might as well look at the upsides.”

“I can’t believe how calm you’ve been through it all,” Harry says, moving to lie down on his back next to him.

“Honestly, I don’t think it has fully sunk in yet,” Cedric replies, staying silent for a while before adding out of the blue, “And I thought _I_ had problems with my dad.”

The remark is so sudden and so utterly ridiculous that Harry can’t help but start laughing along with Cedric, burying his face into his pillow to muffle the sound that has a slightly hysterical edge to it.

When the laughter slowly dies off, there is only the quiet comfort of an embrace left, and a promise of a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Legilimency is more akin to navigating the mind than attempting to read it, and any mind, much like a labyrinth, has countless different pathways—but only one to lead you to your destination.

Albus would ordinarily not have bothered with such an exhaustive process, but there was something in the eyes of that young man whom he always remembered to have a careful veil cast over them that persuaded him to reconsider.

“Are you sure this is wise?” Severus asks him once Harry and Cedric have left, eyeing Tom with a healthy dose of suspicion. “To trust him at all is a risk of which I’m not sure the benefits outweigh the downsides.”

But it was never about trust; what Albus proposed was a very simple transaction. All of Tom’s secrets—no, his very _mind_ , in exchange for his life. He would not have made the offer at all had something Tom said not made him believe that even now, there is a glimmer of hope for him left yet:

_“He’s better off dead.”_

Albus has always known Tom Riddle to fear death above all, and for this man to look someone in the eye and renounce _himself_ , implying mercy in the fate rather than the abhorrence that lead him to mutilating his own soul in an effort to escape it—it is nothing short of a remarkable change, if it is sincere.

And there is really only one way to find out its measure of sincerity.

“Are you ready, Tom?” Albus asks calmly, still seated in the creaky wooden chair in front of him, Severus standing guard much like a gargoyle on the side-lines, eyes fixed upon the form of the young man spelled to the wall.

Tom’s glare is aimed somewhere in the direction of Albus' beard as he replies. “Do I have a choice?”

“You always have a choice.”

“Oh, spare me your bloody technicalities,” the young man hisses, closing his eyes for a brief moment and taking a deep breath, exhaling through his nostrils. It weighs on him, but both he and Albus know what his answer will ultimately be. “Fine. If this is the only way—”

The initial instance of eye-contact is more than sufficient, because unlike in the past, _this_ Tom Riddle’s mind is not shielded by an impenetrable wall any longer. It is laid out completely bare, just as agreed, and what Albus finds within is nothing even he could have anticipated.

Many memories flitting by like smoke, yes, but there is something else here within Tom’s mind that shouldn’t be, another presence, a sentience watching him as he meanders through a haphazard collection of memories strung together like faulty patchwork.

Albus sees the memory of Tom’s first day at Hogwarts flit by as a voice coming from nowhere and everywhere at once says, _‘Visitors usually ought to knock before entering.’_

As much bemusement as the surprising encounter inspires within him, the voice comes with its own line of memories that provide the answer for its existence, and for a rare moment Albus finds himself genuinely surprised to his very core.

A small palm pressing blood into the pages of a diary, creating a bond similar to the one he made with Ginny Weasley, and yet different in what the magic hooks into.

Not Harry’s soul, but the Horcrux residing within him.

 _‘In a way,’_ the strange voice speaks again, _‘Tom really did you a much greater favour than getting rid of that little Death Eater.’_

Harry is a Horcrux no longer, not quite, but Albus suspects the bond between him and Voldemort is not so easily severed, not after fourteen years. Soul magic is a messy business—there is always going to be some connection, though not one strong enough for Voldemort to ever be anchored to Harry again.

A great sense of relief washes over Albus; he always dreaded for Harry, for the lot he was dealt in life. No young boy should be expected to make that decision, to sacrifice his own life even if there would be a good chance of him surviving it. With Tom having (though unknowingly at the time) taken his own Horcrux back from Harry, he at the very least spared him this fate.

 _‘He’s not so bad,’_ the Horcrux that Tom absorbed, as Albus suspects, says. _‘Oh, he has a lot to make up for, that is true—but after how much he has changed, is it truly fair to condemn him to be the same as Voldemort?’_

Show me, then—how much has he changed?

In an extraordinary experience that Albus is certain has seldom occurred before if at all, rather than navigating the maze of Tom’s mind on his own, the Horcrux within him guides him towards thoughts, memories passing by, plucking them out of the space they dwell in and putting them on display as if a Pensieve.

They are fleeting snippets, and yet processed by Albus’ mind in split-seconds, naked and bared only in the way a true memory is, unaltered and soaked in thoughts and feelings floating about the mind.

The first one appears.

* * *

_A tap of a wand on a quill, that a moment later transforms into a perfectly red apple right in front of wide green eyes._

_"How… how did you... but the book clearly said—"_

_"Forget about the book. You can transform anything with enough concentration and enough willpower. Why should you be able to turn a cup into a rat but not a carrot? Magic makes no distinctions, or exceptions; we do._

_"Of course they would never tell the general public this. If people could make their own money, their own food, make their own houses and clothes, what need would there be for currency, society, economy? The Ministry of Magic would be crippled and lose its control over the working class, and the entirety of the wizarding world would collapse on itself."_

_"Is that..." A wonder-filled gaze, a thoughtful look. "Can you teach me that as well?"_

_The slightest surprise. "Do you truly wish to learn it?"_

_“Yeah, I’d like to know.”_

* * *

_A soft touch of a familiar hand on the cover of a diary, warmth, and a stray thought._

_Does Harry miss him?_

_"Still not better yet, Tom?"_

_Silence._

_The touch moves away, leaving an empty, cold feeling behind._

_Does Tom miss him back?_

* * *

_"Oh?" Amusement, a perception of naivety, of a childish anger. "Genocide it is, then? Though I suppose it wouldn't be such a drastic change. As far as we know, dementors contribute nothing to their environment nor have any impact on it. Even leeches have their benefits, but dementors… they seem to exist solely to feed off humans. I am surprised no one has attempted to eradicate them sooner."_

_"Is it even possible to kill one?"_

_Unexpected. Different. Not at all childish—potential for something, something so much more._

_"So you_ are _considering it."_

* * *

_"You've been very lucky indeed, to avoid being detected by the Death Eaters.” Hand on a slim shoulder—he tells himself it’s all a game, all a game._

_"Right.” Nervous, and utterly smitten with him, it’s so obvious to see._

_"I'm relieved to see you return to me in good health.” Meant as another play in the game, and yet, maybe underneath it all, maybe truth—and that fear of it, of it being not a lie at all._

_His hand squeezes the shoulder slightly, met with a flustered expression._

_"Harry, you'll catch flies if you don't close your mouth."_

_A charming flush of cheeks._

_Suddenly the game might not be a game for much longer._

* * *

_"Yeah, and he's… um… he's at Hogwarts too."_

_"Go on."_

_Delightfully cat-and-mouse, offering the comfort of pretence if he can just play to the tune, ignore the strings tying him to this boy that are burning underneath his skin._

_"Really helpful guy. Friendly, and stuff. Talented."_

_Lying, Harry is lying._

_"Sounds familiar. Could this be someone I know?"_

_A wonderful, wonderful chase._

_"It's… it’s Cedric. Cedric Diggory."_

_Surprise—irritation—it isn’t entirely unbelievable, and yet it has to be a lie._

_"Cedric Diggory?"_

_There should be no one but Tom._

* * *

_"You don't actually care for Diggory, do you?"_

_The answer shouldn’t matter._

_"It's none of your business."_

_And yet it stings anyway._

* * *

_"Do you really like me?"_

_He’s seething at the question—no reason for him to be so angry, if this were a game, which it is, and yet, and yet he can’t help the indignation because even if it were a play, a tactic, something behind it was curious, something behind it was genuine._

_"You still doubt me after that?"_

_So why wasn’t it enough?_

_"I didn't mean—"_

_Doesn’t matter what he meant._

_It should’ve been enough._

* * *

_“The Triwizard Cup, my Lord. The last task is a maze.”_

_In theory, an inescapable trap. It would be the end of it all._

_"No.”_

_He doesn’t want it to be the end._

_“My Lord?”_

_He doesn’t want Harry to die._

* * *

_“At Hogsmeade—”_

_“At Hogsmeade you brushed me off like it was nothing. We didn’t actually talk, we didn’t go over anything, you just basically told me to not talk about it and that was that.”_

_Because he shouldn’t get involved, because this is a mess Tom doesn’t even know how to get himself out of, deluding himself into thinking it’s for the best when he already knows what will happen._

_“What else was there to talk about?”_

_Why does he care?_

_“How about the fact that you don’t trust me at all? I went behind your back, and yes, that was wrong—but I’ve told you everything about my life, trusted you with anything and everything, and you couldn’t even tell me what you really were all this time! That-that you might actually end up going insane, Tom! That’s what the book said, about Horcruxes!”_

_He shouldn’t care at all, the naive fool._

_For his own good, he shouldn’t._

* * *

_“I am impressed by how far you’ve come.” This is a mistake. “Sit. We have much to discuss.”_

_This is a mistake, this is a mistake, this is a mistake—_

_Laughter, a chill down his spine._

_“Are you afraid, boy?”_

_Yes._

_“No.”_

* * *

**_Remorse._ **

* * *

Albus looks at Tom now, still suspended against the wall and out of breath with a drop of sweat trailing down the side of his face, and for the very first time he sees a boy who made all the wrong choices—and came to regret them.

“Tom,” he says quietly, and Tom lifts his head slightly, but does not meet his gaze.

“Satisfied?” Tom replies, tired, bone-weary. 

Albus considers him for a moment, this young man he thought he knew, before he undoes the spell binding Tom to the wall, gently lowering the now surprised boy to the ground. Beside them, Severus’ hand keeps near the wand in his pocket.

Tom looks up at Albus in a mixture of wariness and a stunned curiosity, before Albus extends his arm to him.

“I’d like you to take a vow.”


	31. Chapter 31

“Ron—what are you doing?”

The galleon nearly slips out of his hand and he flinches in surprise at Hermione’s sudden voice calling out from behind him, ears burning red as he quickly tries to shove his wand back in the pocket of his robe. Hermione sits down next to him at the table in the Gryffindor common room a moment later, eyeing him curiously.

It’s early in the morning, breakfast having already started down in the Great Hall, and Harry still hasn’t come back—but Ron’s mind is somewhere else entirely.

“Uh, nothing,” Ron stammers, hiding the galleon in his fist. Hermione looks unconvinced. “Just, you know, practising.”

“Practising what?”

“Nothing!”

Hermione purses her lips thinly for a moment, glancing at his arm as Ron holds his fist hidden under the table. “Are you trying to duplicate that galleon?”

He sighs, not looking at her as he takes the galleon out and puts it down on the table. “Couldn’t get it to work, anyway.”

“Well, of course it wouldn’t be _that_ easy,” Hermione says as she takes the gold coin, turning it over between her fingers. “You can’t break Gamp’s Principle Exceptions willy-nilly like you’re just casting any other spell. It’s incredibly intuitive magic, one that relies on willpower, focus and imagination more than anything else.” She flushes slightly. “I, um, I’m still having trouble with it, too.”

Ron snorts. “Shocking.”

“Besides—” She slides the coin back to him over the table, ignoring his slightly derisive response, “—we don’t have time for this right now. No one has seen Dumbledore _or_ Harry ever since that explosion in Moody’s classroom; we should be trying to find him!”

“McGonagall said there was nothing to worry about,” Ron points out tersely as he shoves the coin back into his pocket, next to his wand. As always, all she’s worried about is Harry. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“ _Fine_?” Hermione repeats incredulously. “Ron, you heard what Ginny said about the diary hurting people. The situation is anything but fine! Just because you’d rather dally around with a stupid coin—”

“I wasn’t dallying around!” Ron snaps with a glare, but what was he expecting her reaction to be, really? Of course she wouldn’t get it. “I was just… never mind.”

“What?” Hermione looks more curious now than reprimanding, her voice slightly more subdued at Ron’s outburst.

Ron breathes out a frustrated sigh, hand slipping into his pocket to feel the warmed gold of the galleon. “I just figured, if I could multiply some money… I wouldn’t have to ask my parents for anything anymore. I could buy my own brand new school supplies, and whatever else I want, maybe even help my family… I don’t know, it’s stupid. Where would I even say I got it all from, right? I’m too young to be working and making _that_ much money.”

He hears a sharp intake of breath, exhaled again in a soft, “Oh, Ron…”

“Merlin, please don’t start,” Ron cuts her off in embarrassment, not even wanting to look up at her face to the no doubt pitying expression waiting for him there. “I know, I know, _poor Weasley_ , heard it all before. I don’t need—”

“I’m sorry.”

“—any sympathy from…” Ron blinks, turning his head to glance at Hermione, who has her brows furrowed up in an apologetic expression. “Uh… what?”

“I was in the wrong. I’m sorry,” she repeats patiently. “I didn’t realise… I just thought you were playing around. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Ron feels somewhat like a gaping fish, mouth slowly opening, then closing again. An apology was the last thing he was expecting, though maybe he should have.

Usually when he rejects people’s pity they end up offended, or at the very least consider him to be ungrateful, as if they’ve done him some sort of great favour by showing basic human decency, expecting him to grovel at their feet after patting themselves on the back for their good deed of the day. They couldn’t care less about his situation, only interested in affirming themselves as moral and righteous in order to show off to others.

Of course Hermione isn’t like this—she’s just sheltered, growing up with well-off muggle parents, but she is very much sincere in her compassion.

“Thanks,” he says faintly, watching a charmingly timid smile spread on her face for a moment before it fades just a second later and she turns pensive.

“Maybe you could just tell them?”

“Tell them what?”

“About Gamp’s Principle Exceptions.”

“You’re serious?” Ron repeats with a frown. “Just tell them that I could break one of the oldest magical rules in existence?”

“Why not? They’re your family; I’m sure they’d understand the need to keep it quiet.” Hermione glances at a group of seventh year girls that wander down from the dorms then, passing their table, continuing only when they’ve left out of the portrait hole. “Besides, you wouldn’t be hurting anyone, you’d just be improving your lives with the use of magic. Isn’t that what being a wizard is all about?”

The more Ron thinks on it, the more he realises Hermione is right. Why not use it, since it’s right there? Why go even a single day longer with his family crammed in a makeshift, towering shack, barely able to pay off the children’s school tuition? It’d make life so much easier for them; his dad wouldn’t have to constantly work overtime at the Ministry, and his mother wouldn’t have to keep worrying about how to pay for all the school supplies each year. There are really no downsides to this, as far as he can tell.

Besides possibly giving his mother a heart attack that is, but that’s another matter entirely. Though he’d definitely have to omit the part about it being _Tom_ whom he heard this trick from and shuffle all the credit onto Hermione instead.

“Yeah, alright.” Ron decides, figuring he’s really got nothing to lose here. “Thanks, ‘mione. How much time have we got left before class starts?”

“About twenty minutes, I think. Why?”

“Reckon we should go look for Harry,” Ron says, picking up his bag from the table and heaving it over his shoulder as he stands up. “Ask around in the Great Hall—there’s got to be someone that’s seen him, right?”

Hermione gets up from her chair as well, beaming up at him with a pleased smile and he feels his heart flutter.

“Right,” she agrees. “Let’s go find Harry.”

* * *

“Wake up, Harry.”

Harry hums sleepily, burying his face further into the pillows, barely half-awake from a haze of confusing dreams. There’s a warmth surrounding him, a broad chest pressed against his back, soft kisses pressed on the nape of his neck making a very persuasive case for why he should stay.

“C’mon, you’ll miss breakfast,” the quiet voice still rough with sleep continues to rumble pleasantly against his skin and not making it any easier for him to want to move, much less get up for food.

“Eat later,” Harry mumbles, squeezing the hand resting against his chest. It’s too warm and comfortable for him to consider anything else. “Jus’ a bit longer.”

Cedric sighs, the hot exhale on his skin making Harry’s spine tingle—and suddenly the warmth against his back and around his chest is gone, Cedric sitting up in the bed that creaks slightly with the movement. Harry frowns, cracking his eyelids open and turning his head to glance over at Cedric, reaching with a hand and grabbing a hold of his sleeve, tugging demandingly.

“Back,” he mutters eloquently, Cedric breathing out an amused huff. They’ve both fallen asleep in their robes, having slept for a few hours too long and now feeling groggy. Harry still can’t bring himself to move, though—he needed the sleep, having barely caught any of it the past week.

“I’ll end up with a headache if I sleep any longer,” Cedric says, yawning loudly as he stretches. When he tries to get off the bed, Harry petulantly tightens the hold on his sleeve, trying to pull him back. “Harry…”

“Five minutes.”

Cedric looks down at him with what Harry _assumes_ is a conflicted expression, seeing as how it’s mostly just a blur without his glasses.

“Look, I, er…” Cedric sounds a little embarrassed in his reply, bordering on uncomfortable. “I really need to go—um, clean up.”

“Clean up?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says quickly, prying Harry’s fingers off his robes instead of the more tempting offer in joining him, ignoring his boyfriend’s disappointed stare as he gets up. “Besides, we’ve still got classes to attend to.”

“I’m not going,” Harry declares, twisting to lie on his back. He reaches for his glasses on the nightstand, putting them on and watching everything flit right back into focus as he stares up at the ceiling.

“So you’re just going to lay in bed all day?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go down to Hogsmeade—I’m out of Fizzing Whizzbees.”

“You know,” Cedric starts nonchalantly as he straightens out his robes and combs his fingers through his hair, not looking at Harry. “I hear they use dried billywigs in those.”

Harry’s jaw slackens in a mixture of shock and disgust. “You mean I’ve been eating an _insect_ this entire time?”

“It’s just a rumour—but presumably, yes.”

He groans, burying his face in the pillow again, glasses and all. “I’m never eating them again.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to class?”

He feels the mattress shift, fingers curling into his hair, caressing the wild locks. He sighs, tired beyond the physical, plagued with the sort of exhaustion no amount of sleep could cure.

“I need time to think,” Harry admits, yesterday’s events like a low flame in the back of his head, starting to burn hotter the more the seconds tick by. “Time to process it.”

“Want me to stay?”

The thought is alluring, but he wouldn’t ask that kind of favour from Cedric—Harry knows how seriously he takes his studies, and even one day of absence from Hogwarts’ Champion would be noticed. Besides, he’s a big boy, he can handle himself. “No, you should go.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

Cedric looks distinctly unconvinced. “Just don’t spend the whole day holed up here by yourself, okay? You should find Ron and Hermione instead.”

The thought of having to explain the whole situation to them isn’t exactly inspiring, Harry letting out a deep, weary sigh.

“Harry?”

“I promise,” he mutters, yanking up the covers to his chin. “Just gonna sleep a bit longer, first.”

“Alright.” Cedric leans down, pressing a kiss against his temple. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

Harry remains in his bed for about half an hour after Cedric has left before finally working up the energy to push himself out of bed. He doesn’t want to think about last night, doesn’t want to think about the past week—still bleary-eyed with sleep, he feels mostly numb when he leaves the Room of Requirement and heads for Gryffindor Tower, finding the common room mostly abandoned save for a few older students who look at him curiously, but otherwise leave him alone.

Showering does him some good, at least. There’s something about being left alone in a stall with a stream of water pouring down on him as he washes his hair that lets him ponder without wanting to block it all out. His main concern for the moment is what Dumbledore will decide to do with Riddle. Even if he is to help them fight Voldemort, he couldn’t possibly be allowed to stay at Hogwarts, could he?

When he heads down to the common room again, dressed in clean robes and feeling fresher than he did when he woke up, one of the older students addresses him.

“McGonagall was looking for you, Potter,” the girl says, probably a seventh year. “Said the Headmaster wants to speak with you whenever you are able.”

Harry’s heart skips anxiously, and he nods. “Thanks.”

Well, time to hear the verdict.

* * *

When he arrives in Dumbledore’s office, the first thing he sees when he opens the door is the tall figure of Tom Riddle, conversing quietly with the portrait of a former Headmaster. He falls silent at Harry’s entrance, eyes flitting towards him just as Harry stubbornly looks away toward Dumbledore instead.

“Ah, good morning, Harry,” Dumbledore greets him pleasantly as Harry closes the door as he enters, taking a few steps into the office but not feeling comfortable enough to sit down, lingering behind the chair instead.

“Morning, sir,” he mutters, trying very hard not to be distracted by the gaze burning on his face, nor the slow footsteps that _click…click…click_ through the room as Riddle crosses it leisurely, all the while looking at Harry.

“I am sure,” Dumbledore says as he folds his hands atop the desk, “that you are impatient to hear what I’ve decided.”

“Yeah,” Harry says with an exhale of breath, acutely aware of the creaking wood as Riddle shifts even the slightest bit, trying to ignore the sensation of a gaze on his face. “A little.”

An uneasy feeling settles into the pit of his stomach as he looks at piercing blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles, glinting with an almost foreboding twinkle over the rim of the glasses. He thinks he might very well end up not liking this decision, not one bit.

“Tom and I have come to an understanding,” Dumbledore begins and already Harry feels the sting of protest on the tip of his tongue like a coil ready to be sprung, keeping it back with a clenched jaw. “I would like to reassure you that I’ve taken every precaution to make certain of his commitment to his end of the bargain. I have searched his mind thoroughly, and based upon what I’ve seen, his offer of aid in hunting down Voldemort’s remaining Horcruxes was made with complete sincerity.”

It takes quite a large amount of willpower not to glance at the young man peering at him from a short distance away. Harry isn’t quite sure how to take this information—he trusts his Headmaster, of course, and if Dumbledore was the one to look through Riddle’s thoughts then that should be reassurance enough.

But it doesn’t change what Riddle has done, doesn’t change the lies he’s told, doesn’t change the games he’s played, doesn’t change the dagger in the back still making Harry bleed. It doesn’t earn him forgiveness.

“Furthermore,” Dumbledore continues, “as an added measure, he agreed to submit himself to an Unbreakable Vow—a binding magical agreement between two wizards that, upon its conditions being breached, will result in the death of the one who made it.”

This, however, is significant. Of course it wasn’t as if Riddle had any choice, but having made such a vow means that at the very least he could be prevented from turning on them when it comes down to it. It sets Harry slightly at ease, knowing that Riddle probably wouldn’t risk death to betray them to Voldemort.

Even if he’s still distrustful, Cedric’s words from the other day come to mind: whether Harry forgives him or not is neither here nor there.

What matters most is that Riddle can be used.

“What kinds of conditions?”

“Ones that will ensure his cooperation with us, insofar as defeating Voldemort,” Dumbledore replies cryptically. “But I believe what you are most interested in hearing is what will happen to him next, moving forward. Would you like to tell him yourself, Tom?” 

Riddle says nothing, and Harry refuses to even glance in his direction to look at his expression, which will no doubt be closed off to him anyway.

“Very well; I suppose I shall do the honours,” Dumbledore says, taking Riddle’s silence as an answer before addressing Harry once more. “Professor Snape will be keeping an eye on him.”

“So he’s staying at Hogwarts?” Harry’s tone is more biting than he intended it to be, but Dumbledore hardly reacts to it, continuing in his mild conversation.

“I’m sure you understand my reluctance, even with the vow in place, to let him roam about the country unsupervised,” the old Headmaster explains patiently, and a spiteful part of Harry feels irritated at the reasonable answer, wanting nothing more than to have Riddle locked away somewhere he doesn’t have to see him, or hear him.

“But sir, Sna… _Professor_ Snape is a teacher; how is he supposed to keep an eye on…” Harry pauses in uncertainty, his first instinct being to say _Riddle_ , but something about it feels unnaturally distant and too sudden, while calling him Tom is too familiar.

Fortunately, Dumbledore understands what he’s getting at, responding to his awkward, trailed-off sentence. “A very fair point, one I’ve considered with much concern myself. Professor Snape cannot be expected to watch Tom when he’s too busy teaching his classes. That is why I’ve decided, in order to facilitate supervision on Tom as well as keep him busy, to appoint him the position of teaching assistant to Professor Snape’s classes.”

“ _What_?” Harry looks at the Headmaster in astonishment, for the first time during their conversation glancing at the tall, looming figure of Riddle who has been staring incessantly at him for the past five minutes. “Sir, with all due respect–you can’t be serious!”

“I understand your feelings on this matter quite well, Harry,” Dumbledore says gravely, the outrage simmering in the back of Harry’s throat dimming at the tone. “It’s a very unpleasant situation I’m putting you in, and I regret its necessity, but it is the best way to ensure Tom is being watched. I could decide to keep him with me instead, but I’m afraid he doesn’t much enjoy my company.”

Harry can see the logic—keeping him occupied while being able to watch him in every move he makes, and that’s exactly what makes it so frustrating. Potions with Snape is bad enough, but to have to look at Riddle’s mug and have him _teach_ Harry again is like a dagger already buried in his chest being twisted on top of that.

Still, he resolved before coming here that he wouldn’t let his emotions get the better of him, that he wouldn’t allow Riddle the pleasure of riling him up, and he did tell Cedric he’d let Dumbledore decide, didn’t he? Harry trusts his Headmaster knows what’s best, and as much as it pains him, as much as he’d rather kick and scream and fight the decision tooth and nail, he knows the effort would be a waste.

“Okay,” Harry says quietly, taking a breath in an attempt to cool the heat of anger still inside his chest, and from his peripheral vision he almost thinks he sees something of surprise flashing on Riddle’s face, brows arching and eyes widening slightly. “If that’s what you think is best, sir. But if he’s going to be in _all_ of Snape’s classes, there’s still…” He hesitates briefly. “There’s still Ginny.”

“Ah, yes.” Dumbledore’s tone turns sombre. “I’m afraid a conversation with Miss Weasley is in order as well. Perhaps best done with Tom absent.”

Harry nods, jaw setting as he’s reminded of what Ron and Hermione told him about Riddle, what he did to Ginny—reminded of the conversation he had with her later that same night, right before her family would take their leave of the party.

He cornered her in the bathroom, wanting, _needing_ answers, needing to understand. When she saw him she turned pale, understanding at once what he was there for.

 _“Please don’t tell Ron,”_ she begged, her hands shaking. _“Don’t tell anyone. If they ever found out what I did—”_

Harry’s stomach churned as he watched her eyes glitter with tears, chest heaving with a sharp breath, as if she was living it all over again. He rushed forward to embrace her, but couldn’t offer her any real comfort; how could he?

He spent so much time trying to think of a way to give Riddle a second chance, almost willing to be deceived a second time while everything pointed to an unforgiving truth he was almost too scared to confront. Meanwhile Ginny suffered at Riddle’s hands, suffers still.

 _“That wasn’t you,”_ he said to her, for the first time truly regretting finding the diary, writing to it, letting himself be sucked in by Riddle’s lies. _“I promise I’ll fix this. I won’t let him hurt anyone else ever again.”_

She pulled away from him then, the tears wiped away, a steely look in their place. _“You have to destroy it, Harry. If you find the diary again, you_ have _to destroy it.”_

He feels sickened now, thinking back to it—Dumbledore knows of her situation, knows what Riddle did, and yet he will put Riddle’s usefulness above Ginny’s wellbeing. The worst thing of all is that Harry understands why and would even go so far as to say, had he been in Dumbledore’s shoes, he would’ve done the same thing as much as he hates it, as much as he despises it.

But to make the decision at the expense of an innocent girl having already suffered at the hands of the diary, his friend, Ron’s sister, makes Harry’s heart ache.

“Shall I take my leave, then?”

Riddle’s cutting words give an edge to the smooth baritone, like the tip of a knife being pressed into Harry’s ears.

“I’d rather you not wander on your own for the moment, Tom,” Dumbledore replies mildly. “Best you stay and wait for Professor Snape—he’ll escort you down to the dungeons. No need to look so sour! It’ll only be another few minutes before you’ll be freed from this rambling old man.”

Taking a deep breath, Harry exhales softly, hoping a lungful of air will suppress the nausea rolling in his gut as he turns his head and meets the dark eyes whose gaze has been glued on his face, even while sneering at the most powerful wizard alive.

“I’ll take him,” Harry says, surprise—startled and curious—simultaneously overtaking both Riddle and Dumbledore’s expressions. “The sooner he’s gone, the sooner you can talk to Ginny, right?”

“Are you sure, Harry?” Dumbledore asks, that knowing twinkle in his eyes making Harry wonder why he even bothered inquiring since he already seems to know his answer.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Well then, before you leave,” the Headmaster continues, “I’d like for you to take a seat.”

Harry frowns slightly, but does as asked, moving with some reluctance towards the chair. “Professor?”

“You have surprised me, Harry,” Dumbledore says. “I was expecting, perhaps in my woeful underestimation of you, quite an argument—as would be your right. Instead, you handled it with a maturity I could not reasonably ask from anyone else your age.”

Dumbledore’s brows stitch together, wrinkled old hands folding together on top of his large desk. “There is, unfortunately, one last thing I must tell you.”

Harry finally decides to sit, and listens.

He listens, and bile rises in his throat.

He listens, and anger throbs in his skull.

He listens, and wants to claw his scar out of his skin.

Riddle wasn’t the only Horcrux, not up until a year ago. _Harry_ was a Horcrux. _He_ carried another part of Voldemort’s soul inside of him, all this time, thirteen years of his life. _He_ was another anchor tying his parents’ murderer to life—until Riddle took it from him.

“It’s…” Harry clears his throat when his voice comes out too hoarse to understand, feeling perhaps a bit absurdly as if he needs to take another very long, very hot shower. “It’s gone now? All of it?”

“Traces of it most likely remain, too merged with your own soul to be removed completely,” Dumbledore explains. “It would take very powerful magic to attempt destroying whatever lingers, and the risks are not worth gambling your life on.”

“Is that why…” His memory takes him back to restless nights, strange voices from dreams he could never quite recall. “A few months ago, I was having nightmares, and every time I woke up my scar would be hurting.”

“A last link between you and Voldemort; one that still ties your minds, but not one that could ever protect him from death.”

Harry, elbows on his knees, buries his hands in his hair, head hanging down. Is it childish to ask why this had to happen to him? Is it weak to wish desperately that it hadn’t? Is it pitiful to feel so repulsed in his own skin?

“There is a way,” Dumbledore starts at Harry’s despondent silence, “to shield yourself from its influence. But we shall discuss that another time—in his current state, he forms no threat to you yet, and I believe you have endured quite enough for one day.”

One day? More like a whole week, or even a month. As if realising the extent of Riddle’s betrayal wasn’t enough, now he has to deal with the rather horrifying knowledge that he used to be a receptacle of Voldemort’s hideous soul and even after removal, still maintains some form of bond with him.

And how is he going to explain this to Cedric? To Ron and Hermione? How is he ever going to face Ginny? They’ll be disgusted with him—hell, _he’s_ disgusted by himself, as irrational as it is. He can’t smother the uncomfortable sensation of something crawling inside his body, slithering through his veins, his airways, creeping into and out of his heart chambers with every pump.

Yet, Harry refuses to be shaken, not in front of Dumbledore, and certainly not in front of Riddle. He won’t let the latter have the satisfaction of watching him fall apart again, not after his embarrassing loss of control yesterday where his throat strained with his screaming, making a spectacle of himself.

_“You were always too emotional for your own good.”_

 Fine, then.

Harry forces himself out of the seat, exhaling deeply as he stands and meets Dumbledore’s sad eyes. “Thank you for telling me, Professor,” he says, unable to suppress that slightest of tremors in his voice. “I’ll escort Riddle to the dungeons, now.”

Dumbledore looks at him rather gravely from over the rim of his glasses. “Do take care not to isolate yourself, Harry. Pain and grief are very human emotions; it wouldn’t do you any good to try and smother them.”

Is he that transparent? Harry’s shoulders deflate slightly in resignation as he nods. “Yes, Professor.”

Without casting a single look towards Riddle Harry turns around and exits the office, heading straight for the gargoyle guarding the moving circular staircase. Standing in a cramped space with Riddle just a few inches behind him is decidedly unpleasant, Harry relieved at the noise of scraping stone that fills the empty silence in-between them.

Once he exits the staircase the sharp footsteps behind him are the only indication that Riddle is still following him, and Harry can almost feel his stare stinging on his spine, on the tense line of his shoulders, on the back of his neck. The corridor in front of them is empty, leading to the Grand Staircase, which will take them down to the Entrance Hall where Harry can finally be rid of Riddle’s presence.

“So we are to ignore each other, then?” Riddle says as if having read his thoughts, sardonic tone prodding at Harry’s temper. “Seems rather inconvenient, considering I’ll be teaching you again soon.”

That hits a nerve; Harry’s jaw clenches. “Shut up.”

“Come now, Harry, if we are to be allies—”

“I’m not your ally!” Harry explodes, spinning on his heel to face Riddle with a furious glare. Riddle’s face is impassive, but Harry knows him too well to think it a reflection of his true feelings. “Just _stop talking_.”

He turns around to continue stalking off towards the stairs, when Riddle speaks again.

“Dumbledore didn’t tell you the whole story.”

Harry stops in his tracks, anger burning bright in his head, but it’s his grudging curiosity that prompts him to glance over his shoulder at Riddle again, who looks almost smug to have caught his attention once more.

“What are you on about this time?”

“He explained the link between you and Voldemort,” Riddle continues silkily, “but he never told you about the link between you and me.”

“What link?” Harry asks in alarm, slowly turning to face him, but when Riddle takes a step forward his hand flies to his pocket, yanking out his wand and aiming it right at Riddle’s face.

Riddle’s brows furrow deeply as he stares at the tip, eyes flitting back up to Harry’s face. “There’s no need for that,” he says irritably. “I’m unarmed, and even if I were foolish enough to try and hurt you, I’d be betraying my vow and die on the spot.”

The tension in the muscles of Harry’s arm recedes slightly, but after a moment of reluctant consideration, he slowly lowers his wand, replying stiffly, “Just don’t come any closer.”

Riddle’s expression shutters, and he inclines his head slightly. “As I was saying, the night I took the Horcrux from you, when I unknowingly extracted it from you—”

“You mean when you tried to kill me,” Harry hisses. “Don’t sugar-coat it—you tried to _murder me_!”

“It was a mistake on my part,” Riddle replies coolly.

“A mistake?” Harry repeats slowly, eyes wide in barely-suppressed fury. “A _mistake_?”

“If you want an apology—”

“You really think an apology is going to make this right?” he shouts, white-knuckled grip on his wand. “The only reason you’re still here is because of Dumbledore, but in the end you’re no different than Voldemort; you never were and you never will be!”

Riddle grits his teeth, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “I might’ve been once,” he says quietly, tone shaking with smothered anger, “But you changed me.”

“ _What_?” Harry stares at Riddle, uncomprehending. “Are you serious? Even now you’re… you’re trying to, what, sweet-talk me?”

“If you’d let me _finish_ what I was trying to explain,” Riddle snaps, “then you’d understand! When I took the Horcrux from you, it pulled along something else. You heard Dumbledore, didn’t you? Souls cannot be so easily toyed with, like puzzle pieces you can take apart whenever you like! Having resided inside you for the past thirteen years, the Horcrux must have absorbed something from your soul—”

Harry sucks in a sharp breath. “No, no, no—”

“—and tainted me, in turn.”

“You’re lying!” He raises his wand, hand trembling. “You’re _lying_!”

Riddle takes a step toward him as if approaching a cornered animal, continuing to speak even as Harry wishes fervently he’d just shut up and disappear. “I’m telling you the truth. What reason could I have to deceive you now? Part of your soul, however small, is inside of me—”

“SHUT UP!” The tip of Harry’s wand aims at Riddle’s neck, making him freeze for just a second before his eyes narrow.

“Do you want to kill me, Harry?” He grabs Harry’s wrist, yanking him closer until the tip of holly wood presses right into his jugular. “Do you hate me so? Go ahead, then. Do it. But you won’t—you need me, after all.”

“No, I don’t,” he says in a broken whisper, his head spinning, the grip on his wrist clenching, and he looks up into dark eyes that are now wide, staring down at him in utter fixation.

They stand completely still for what feels like the length of a picture taken stretching into a movie, only able to count the passing of seconds with his heartbeats that sound far too loud in his ears. He feels Riddle’s breath on his face and the urge to stab through the skin of that pale neck with his wand surges in him for a single moment, to bury his nails into his throat and rip it open to watch it bleed.

“You need me.”

Harry tears his wrist out of Riddle’s grasp, stepping away from him as he shoves his wand back into his pocket and continues walking down the corridor, to the stairs.

The silence behind his back continues for a few seconds, before the sound of footsteps resumes behind him.

His heart feels numb.

* * *

When it turns out none of their classmates or, really, anyone else in the Great Hall has seen Harry, Ron starts getting a little bit concerned. By the time breakfast ends it’s too late to keep searching for him, classes starting a short while after. None of the teachers seem surprised at Harry’s absence, making both Ron and Hermione think they may know something.

Asking Professor McGonagall during that morning’s Transfiguration class, however, yields little results.

“I was told by the Headmaster that he’s most likely feeling unwell after yesterday’s incident, and not to expect him in my class today,” she explains simply while sorting the roll of parchments on her desk; homework assignments students handed in at the start of the lesson. “More than that, I cannot say.”

“What about Professor Moody?” Hermione asks. “I heard something happened in his classroom.”

“Ah, yes.” McGonagall does not look up from her task. “That. Professor Moody will be absent for a while—he has been transferred to St. Mungo’s for the time being.”

“What?” Ron looks over at Hermione, who looks very concerned now. “Professor, what the hell _happened_ yesterday?”

“I am not at liberty to say, Weasley,” McGonagall responds impatiently. “Now, if that was all…” She points with her quill to the door, and the two slink off in worry and disappointment, more bemused than ever.

“Maybe Cedric knows?” Ron poses as they walk towards the Grand Staircase. “We last saw Harry talking to him, right?”

Hermione opens her mouth to reply when she spots something ahead of them, and takes off running. “Harry!”

“Harry? Where?” Ron follows her look, noticing the familiar mess of black hair trailing up the stairs ahead of them before he too starts running.

Harry turns to look at them, waiting for them to catch up, and as Ron climbs up the stairs he’s taken aback by how pale Harry looks, his skin an unhealthy shade of white, accentuating the dark circles under his eyes.

“What the hell happened, mate?” Ron all but exclaims. “You look terrible!”

His friend hums, a noncommittal noise as he keeps going up the stairs, barely reacting to their presence.

“Harry? Are you alright?” Hermione asks, carefully touching on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I just… I need to sit down somewhere.”

“What’s wrong?”

Harry sighs.

“Where do I even start?”


	32. Chapter 32

“You need me,” he said to Harry, and watched his retreating back until a voice in his head replied:

_‘You need him.’_

Tom shakes the feeling off, trying to dull himself to that terrible sensation that settles as a heavy weight in his chest, like fingers pressing inwards. Even so, reality can’t be numbed.

He botched it.

Everything he set out to do from the moment his diary was awakened, from the moment it arrived in the hands of a young girl, and found its way to Harry—he failed, in all of it.

By this point it’s impossible for him to lay the blame on anyone but himself; he was the one who miscalculated, and consequently, he’s the one who now needs to pay the price for his arrogance. Such is the way of things, and denial—while soothing for his ego—would only serve to impede his progress.

What matters now is that he has learned from his mistake (Harry’s angry eyes flash for a moment) and will know better moving forward. Not all is lost. As unbearable as it is to be caught under Dumbledore’s thumb, there is still opportunity.

 _‘You’ve changed your tune rather drastically over the past couple of hours, haven’t you?’_ the remnant says. _‘What were_ _you planning on doing after you acquired your body? Disappear into the night and hunt the Horcruxes on your own?’_

Naturally.

The remnant sounds incredulous when it replies: _‘Did you forget the ‘price of arrogance’ so quickly?”_

It wouldn’t have been arrogance—with the basilisk lying dormant in the Chamber of Secrets, Tom could’ve acquired all the venom necessary to destroy the Horcruxes one by one. Tracking certain items might have formed somewhat of an obstacle, however, seeing as how he’s uncertain of their locations. He has told Dumbledore as much, though that was more due to the compulsion of the Unbreakable Vow rather than his own volition.

There are gaps in the memories he has acquired from the remnant. Or perhaps more accurately, what he acquired were from the last few years of Voldemort’s reign, where all his Horcruxes were safely locked away and not a thought was spared to them.

Tom knows where he placed his ring, remembers the plans he made for Hufflepuff’s Cup and Slytherin’s Locket, but knows not if they’d still be where he intended to hide them. His original could’ve decided to move them at any point in time, not to mention that he doesn’t know if Voldemort ever managed to find Ravenclaw’s Diadem, or the fact that Nagini is constantly by her master’s side.

Being that the situation unfolded quite differently from what he planned, however, even this temporary impediment offers potential for the future.

His ambition has not changed, for the most part. Setting them on the road of a fully magically liberated society has always been part of it, but clearly waging war against the muggles and the impure was not wise. Total isolation, perhaps, would be more doable, more so than getting set on conquering their pitiful world. Cutting away even the slightest influence may require decades, but he’ll have the time to spare.

The trouble with this his current situation is that he is unable to actually  _think_ about it. His goals are clear, he knows what he must do, but he can't think about how to get there, how to accomplish it. It's the bloody compulsion of the Unbreakable Vow; one of the conditions entailed an oath not to betray Dumbledore and his ilk, but the time-frame was left purposefully vague, which means he is unable to even make concrete plans for after Voldemort has been defeated. 

Of course, if he really wanted to, he could. The Unbreakable Vow doesn't force you—the compulsion is merely there to remind you of the cost, and to warn you when you're getting close to breaking your Vow. Seeing as how Tom doesn't plan on dropping dead because of a mere  _thought_ , until he is released from the Vow, he'll be unable to work out any steps post-Voldemort.

Not to mention that the matter of obtaining immortality has become an open question once more. Evidently, Horcruxes have proven to be a disastrous failure. He is—Voldemort is—scattered, fractured, broken. Exchanging his sanity and clarity of mind with immortality is hardly an exchange at all.

He will have to find another way, but for the time being, he is forced to endure his regained mortality. His newly acquired body is a _very_ stark reminder of that.

Tom waits in the spot where Harry left him, standing by the stairs leading to the dungeons. Tall and strikingly handsome as he is, he draws many stares from curious students passing by, though none approach him—he transfigured his robes slightly, getting rid of any detail that might indicate him a student, leaving them plain and black.

It marks him as an anomaly, being neither student nor teacher, but no one seems keen on asking him who he is or what he’s doing here. The insecurity of teenagers is useful in that way; his confident posture is enough to keep them at a distance.

He slips a hand into his pocket, thumbing his new wand. It’s a temporary replacement, and not nearly as impressive as the last one in his possession. He fully intends to reclaim his own once Voldemort is out of the way, of course, but for now this one will do.

It’s an unremarkable thing: thirteen inches with a dragon heartstring core, made of _applewood_ as Dumbledore so cheerfully informed him, to which Tom glared.

Applewood wands mix very poorly with dark magic.

Tom’s eyes glide over the throng of students who have, ostensibly, just finished a class in the dungeons and are starting to head up to the Great Hall for lunch. A group of girls passes him by, all glancing at him with intrigue, giggling giddily amongst themselves when he indulges them with a look.

Just as they’ve passed a whiff of perfume assaults his nostrils, and Tom is startled by the sharpness of its scent. He frowns slightly, listening more carefully to the noise of chattering students. The sound is no longer a muted background noise far away from him—he is in the midst of it, an unmoving stone in the steady currents of the river rather than a pebble on its shore.

Having become a person in the literal _flesh_ will take a day or two of adjustment, and that’s leaving aside the fact that he’s unnervingly vulnerable in this form. He looks at the pale stretch of soft skin on the inner side of his wrist, blue veins peeking through underneath it, and feels rather disturbed at the thought of how easily a knife could cut through it. This body is fragile.

He no longer has the same intuitive, wandless control of his magic either. It was traded in for this solid form protecting him from Voldemort’s mind, for sharper senses, but he still finds his body more limiting than anything else.

Already there is a press of hunger in the pit of his stomach, an irritating winter-chill creeping up on his skin the longer he stands, and the longer he stands, the stiffer his legs get, his muscles growing fatigued. Moving his limbs, carrying his own weight, feels far heavier than before.

Tom certainly forgot how troublesome it was to be human, and does not appreciate being forced to remember. He frowns disdainfully as he shifts a little on his feet, being used to comfortably standing still when he’d been just a shade—why waste movement, after all? But now his joints protest and the bottom of his feet grow weary, and he has to move his weight around, and he has to blink or his eyes become dried, and he has to _remember to breathe_.

How can anyone stand it?

How did he himself stand it, decades ago?

As another gaggle of teenagers stare his way, Tom decides he liked it much better when he could be invisible. The gawking wears on his patience, not that it shows.

While anyone else might have looked awkward waiting near the stairs with a whole crowd passing them by, Tom looks self-assured and poised, as if he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be like a suit of gleaming armour stationed there by a king. It draws the attention of the mediocre masses, but alas, he cannot turn his head away in contempt—making a good first impression is vital.

“Riddle.”

Speaking of first impressions.

He turns his head towards the gargoyle of a man that has climbed up the stairs after the students, silent footsteps having escaped Tom’s notice. Severus Snape.

A memory flashes by. Snape, much younger, kneeling beside his—Voldemort’s—chair. His face downturned, greasy black locks hanging down like the branches of a willow tree.

_“My Lord, I have always been your faithful follower, I have never asked for anything but to be your humble servant…”_

_“What is this about, Severus?”_

_“If… if my Lord is set upon pursuing the Potters…”_

_“Ah.”_ A cold, humourless laugh. _“Who is it you want me to spare? It cannot be the child.”_

_“No, my Lord, not the child—the mother.”_

Lily Potter. Tom remembers the request clearly now, one Voldemort half-heartedly attempted to grant once, and only because it offered a possibility of further manipulation of his valued Potions Master, who became skittish ever since it was announced the Potters were to be a target. Voldemort tolerated it because of Snape’s usefulness, but securing a more permanent means of control would have solved that problem in its entirety.

With the life of Lily Potter in the palm of his hand, Snape would have unquestionably become his pawn. Not a bad idea, had he actually cared enough to follow through with it. Instead he became impatient, killed the woman and unwittingly doomed himself and everything he built up until that point to ruination.

It is an interesting thing to ponder; if Voldemort had listened to Snape, then none of this would have ever come to pass. Tom himself may have been dormant within the diary forever as Voldemort would’ve spiralled further and further into power-hungry madness.

Perhaps it all worked out for the better, then.

“Severus Snape, was it?” Tom says to the man in cool tones, not bothering with a façade of congeniality. Snape knows what he is, and he doubts he could ever win over a man who spent years in Voldemort’s inner circles with something as basic as a smile.

Snape stares at him a moment, dark eyes glinting like hard steel, before he turns back around and sweeps down the stairs again without another word. After a beat, Tom follows.

“I suppose you are to be my jailor, then?” he says when they’ve reached the bottom of the stairs, the students having all but abandoned the dungeons save for some Slytherins loitering in the corridors ahead.

Snape comes to a halt in front of his classroom, turning his head to give Tom a look of sheer loathing.

“Speak only when spoken to, or I will be more than just your jailor,” he sneers, opening the door to stalk inside. Tom considers the hateful reply for a moment, before heading in after Snape.

“Making threats already?” Tom remarks, unperturbed. “I do hope you keep in mind that we share a goal.”

He watches Snape pull out his wand, cleaning up the small mess the last students have made with a sharp gesture. Tiny bits and pieces of ingredients, scraps of parchment, a single quill that was forgotten and an empty inkpot all vanish from the tables.

“You are not an ally,” Snape states coldly. 

“Neither am I an enemy.”

“For now.”

With that Snape moves back to his desk at the front of the class, opening the potions book and turning the pages, likely preparing his next lesson.

It’s obvious winning this man over will be incredibly unlikely, and yet there was something about Voldemort that had initially swayed him, all those years ago. The chance that it remains is small at best, but there’s still a chance.

As it stands, there are only a few things he can do: keep silent, stay obedient, and most importantly, wait.

* * *

His first class of the day, right after lunch, begins in a way that could almost be described as amusing.

“This,” Snape says as he looks over the class of nervous fifth years, wand pointed towards Tom standing a few feet next to him, “is Tom Gaunt. Any inane questions you may have about the subject matter is to be directed towards him from now on. He’ll be my _assistant_ moving forward.”

Snape’s insistence on being a pest aside, Tom is too curious about the mixture of wariness and appreciation on the students’ faces to feel truly irritated. His looks have clearly taken them aback, but being that he’s Snape’s assistant, they’re not sure what to make of him yet.

He puts on an effortless smile—just the right amount of amiable to be charming, but not enough to overdo it.

“It’s a pleasure to be here,” he says to the class, and can already see relief flickering through the room. “I hope my expertise in this area will be of use to you, though I am not as skilled as Professor Snape.”

The admiring stares that follow— _mostly_ from girls—is as predictable as it is laughable. He’s the shiny new thing, and has manners to boot. The contrast to Snape couldn’t be sharper.

“Enough of that gawking,” Snape orders impatiently, moving on to the lesson of the day as Tom takes a step back near the corner of the room and observes his interrogation of the fifth years.

Apparently they’ve been discussing the Draught of Peace for the past lesson or so, and today will be when they brew it in preparation for their O.W.L exam. Tom didn’t bother going over Snape’s lesson plans, knowing he’d be more than comfortable handling whatever potions were listed in the Hogwarts curriculum.

It probably hasn’t changed that much compared to when he himself was still in school, which means that he’ll be bored often. Watching out over the students now getting ready to brew their draughts, a few of them already panicking over the ingredients, Tom doesn’t think he’s teaching material. Not unless he forces it, as he did with Harry.

Still, Harry was always prodding him for more knowledge, curious boy that he is, and was a very quick learner to boot once Tom figured him out to be a very practical student. There was something enjoyable in teaching him and watching him develop his potential into tangible skill, but the class in front of him now?

Tom can already spot several thoughtless mistakes being made at various tables. Forgetting to shake the porcupine quills, not letting the potion simmer long enough for it to develop a solid colour, or letting it simmer for too long—you’d think following a simple 16-step recipe wouldn’t be this challenging for a group of fifth years.

A girl near the front of the class, for example, is adding the wrong kind of powdered moonstone to her concoction and looks very much on the verge of pulling her hair out when the draught turns a grey violet instead of purple as it’s supposed to, emitting a dark steam.

Seeing as how Snape seems entirely disinterested in helping the students along while they’re brewing and more comfortable glaring at them from behind his desk, Tom sighs and starts to make his rounds.

“You seem to be having some trouble with the draught,” he remarks to the girl—a Gryffindor—who nearly jumps when she notices him standing next to her table.

“Uh, yes,” she stammers nervously, looking down at the recipe opened in the book. “I did exactly as described: I added the powdered moonstone after stirring it until it turned blue, and it was _supposed_ to turn purple, but…”

“May I see the moonstone you used?”

The girl blinks and shows him two bags of moonstone, and Tom very nearly scoffs at the amateur mistake. Managing to keep his expression smooth, he takes one of the pouches into his hand.

“See this?” he says, taking out a pinch and spreading it on his palm. “This is white moonstone. You were supposed to use the yellow variety.”

“What?” The girl looks down at her book, wide-eyed and frantic. “But the recipe doesn’t say… oh! The paragraph above it. I hadn’t read… I just looked straight at the recipe.”

“White moonstone is a stimulant,” Tom explains patiently as the girl colours red in embarrassment. “Not exactly what you’d want in a Draught of Peace, since it could lead to rather vivid hallucinations, possibly even night terrors.”

“I can’t fail this one, too!” the girl exclaims, looking close to approaching some sort of nervous breakdown and starting to cause a scene, other students interrupting their work to look at her. “I _have_ to pass my O.W.L! I already messed up the Strengthening Solution—”

“Calm down,” Tom says in as gentle a tone as he can manage, even if he’d much rather leave the silly girl to her fate. “The mistake was hardly that dire, miss…?”

The girl takes a deep breath. “Katie Bell.”

“Miss Bell.” Tom takes out his wand and vanishes the failed potion. “There’s no need to panic. There is plenty of time to start over; if done right, the Draught of Peace can be brewed in a little over 40 minutes. You still have more than an hour left to get it right, don’t you?”

Bell takes a deep breath and nods as Tom fills up the cauldron again with hot water. “Yeah. Thank you, um, sir?”

At her uncertain gaze, Tom graces her with a smile. “Just call me Tom. I’m not that much older than you.”

The girl flushes again, this time not quite out of embarrassment, but manages a shy smile back. “Tom. Thanks.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

The rest of the lesson, and the lessons following that, pass much in the same way. By the end of his first day, Tom has already charmed quite a sizeable chunk of the student population, though he surmises he might not have had such a strong effect had he been an assistant to anyone but Snape. Compared to him, Tom’s persona makes him appear a saint.

Of course, he’s painfully bored throughout the whole ordeal, and breathes easier once classes have ended. He spends most of the late afternoon in his small room granted to him Dumbledore, already making a list in his head of which books to fill on the shelves.

He’ll need to go down to Hogsmeade for supplies in the weekend, seeing as how all he has are the clothes on his back and a wand. He’ll want some potion-brewing supplies of his own, as well as his own cache of ingredients—some of which might not strictly be considered _legal_ , but it’s best to be prepared.

It isn’t until the clock in his room strikes six that he realises it’s time for dinner. The opportunity to look at how Harry is doing is certainly tempting, but aside from Snape, he hasn’t been introduced to the other staff yet and he’d very much like to avoid prying questions into a background he has yet to make up for himself. Dumbledore was certainly no help in that department, trusting his skill as a liar to be sufficient.

He decides to have dinner in his room instead. It’s not like he’s in a hurry to see Harry again—logically, there’s little to be gained from interacting (or antagonising) him any further.

 _‘But you want to see him anyway,’_ the remnant says matter-of-factly.

He does.

 _‘Oh.’_ The remnant sounds taken aback. _‘Well, that was easy. I was certain you’d be throwing a fit at the mere suggestion.’_

Tom sits down at the edge of his small bed, frowning deeply.

He couldn’t answer why, could only guess it must have something to do with the bond between them, but there’s an itch right beneath his skin to see what Harry is doing. Tom knows little of relationships beyond how they can be used in his favour, so this urge to remain close to another for no discernible benefit to him is confusing at best, irritating at worst.

It must just be something about Harry that’s different. Fate, however much Tom scoffs at it, placed Harry in his path for a reason. They’re bound together by a kind of magic that’s never been seen before as far as he knows. Are their lives to be eternally intertwined, then?

His musing is interrupted as his door clicks open, a blond head of curls peeking out just as Tom reaches for his wand.

The intruder, spotting him on the bed, smiles widely and throws the door open. “ _You_ must be Tom Gaunt.”

Tom stands up, eyeing the woman critically. “And you are?”

“Pardon the intrusion,” the woman replies airily as she steps right into his room and offers him a pink slip of a business card. “Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet.”

Well, this is unexpected. “Anything I can help you with, miss Skeeter?” Tom says politely as he slips the card in his pocket. “I see you’ve taken a break from writing gossip about the Triwizard Champions, though I can’t imagine what you’d want with me.”  

The slightly testy tone either goes way over her head or she dismisses it entirely, green quill floating beside her, its tip resting on a small notebook.

“I just had a few questions—nothing too intrusive,” she replies as she takes the liberty to take a seat at his desk, Tom’s jaw twitching. “You’re quite the fresh new addition to Hogwarts, aren’t you?”

“Today was my first day,” he confirms coolly.

“Mm, yes, I noticed.” Her quill is writing something down, but the notebook is angled away from his prying eyes. “How well do you know Harry Potter?”

Tom’s eyes narrow a fraction. “Not well at all, I’m afraid. I haven’t had the pleasure of making his acquaintance.”

“So well-spoken,” Skeeter purrs appreciatively, and had he been a less dignified person Tom would’ve gagged. “But I don’t think that’s _entirely_ true, is it? I believe you had a conversation with him just this morning, in fact.”

“You must be mistaken,” Tom replies, purposefully furrowing his brows in confusion even as his shoulders tense. “I’ve yet to lay eyes on him in person.”

How much did she overhear?

“Truly? Because my sources tell me you had a rather heated argument with him earlier today. A lover’s spat, as I understood.”

Tom relaxes. She’s got nothing.

“Miss Skeeter,” he says with a condescending smile, “it would hardly be appropriate with me to involve myself with a student. I’m not sure where you’re getting this information from, but I assure you it’s all false—besides which, you know better than anyone that Harry Potter already _has_ a relationship.”

Her returning smile turns sharp. “That I do, but I also know about the many, many rumours about a mysterious boyfriend he supposedly had at the start of the year, some of which name him as a… Tom.”

It seems Harry’s inability to keep a secret, even one as inane as a boyish infatuation, might come back to bite him after all. “Tom is an exceedingly common name.”

“Perhaps,” Skeeter humours, while looking much like the cat that got the cream. “But _I_ believe you fit the profile rather nicely, don’t you agree?”

“You seem very convinced that I had a run-in with him,” Tom remarks, deciding it time to end this troublesome prying. “Does this information truly come from your supposed ‘sources’?”

Her grin falters slightly.

“Does the Headmaster even know you’re here?” he presses, and Skeeter abruptly gets up off the chair. “What’s wrong? Leaving already?”

“Oh, I just remembered I’ve got a small errand to run,” she says in an attempt to be dismissive as she moves towards the door, her quill and notebook floating behind her.

“I wonder what Albus Dumbledore would say if he knew you’ve been stalking one of his most prized students for several months on end.”

She freezes near the doorway, turning to give him a tight smile. “I’m sure it wouldn’t be anything good, if it were true.” With that, she leaves, shutting the door harshly behind her.

Tom scowls at her exit, sinking back down onto his bed.

He’s going to have to figure out a cover story quickly, before this woman’s insatiable prying for juicy gossip actually uncovers something substantial.

* * *

The first time he sees Harry again after their explosive little argument is by chance.

It’s the next morning, and Tom is one of the firsts in the Great Hall, introducing himself to the other staff with a charming smile. There are very few students present, most of them still sleeping as he all but winds Sprout, Trelawney, and Flitwick around his little finger. McGonagall and Babbling are not so easily enamoured, but he leaves an excellent first impression on them nonetheless.

Hagrid and Dumbledore are notably absent. No wonder—the half-giant is probably having a very long talk with the Headmaster. Tom settles on a chair at the edge of the staff table next to the Astronomy Professor, Sinistra, delighting her with some small talk as he wonders in amusement what Hagrid’s reaction will be upon first seeing him.

Tom is the whole reason the lumbering idiot got nearly expelled from Hogwarts and had his wand snapped, after all. Nearly landed him in Azkaban, too.

He’s considering the memory with some humour still when a messy head of black hair and a scowling face enters the Great Hall, marching straight to the Gryffindor table. That is, until green eyes slide over the staff table and Harry nearly trips over the edge of his own robe at seeing Tom, face slowly tinging red as he quickly settles down at the very end of the House table and as far away from Tom as possible.

Tom considers the reaction with some satisfaction, his conversation with Sinistra tapering off as he keeps his eyes mostly focused on Harry as more students trickle into the hall. Harry continues eating by himself, seeming determined not to look in Tom’s direction again, but then something interesting happens.

Weasley and Granger walk in, but rather than join Harry, Weasley casts an angry glance his friend's way, and stomps off to the opposite end of the table, Granger following him uncertainly. It seems the inseparable trio got into a bit of a fight. Was it about Tom, or something else entirely? Whatever the reason, the timing for this is rather fortuitous.

A cold smile slowly unfurls on Tom’s face—perhaps coaxing Harry back onto his side won’t be so impossible after all.

Granger whispers pleadingly to Weasley, who seems determined to ignore him, when she finally notices Tom sitting at the staff table, and abruptly falls silent, paling considerably. Weasley looks at her in confusion, before following her eyes and noticing him, eyes widening in something akin to mortification.

They know, then. Tom wonders what it is that managed to put a wedge between them, staring at Harry for a moment longer and delighting in his vulnerability—until Diggory walks in, heading straight for Harry and sitting down next to him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

Harry smiles at Diggory, and Tom stabs at his eggs.

He wouldn’t have spared a thought to it before, but Dumbledore’s prying unlocked more doors than it should have, and he hears the hinges of one in particular creaking incessantly in his head.

Why _Cedric Diggory_?

The boy might not want for anything as far as appearance is concerned, but on the whole he’s quite unremarkable. Is it because he was chosen by the Goblet of Fire? It must be—Tom can’t think of anything else that would’ve distinguished him in Harry’s eyes. The Goblet does not pick a wizard lightly, so perhaps there’s more to Diggory than he first assumed.

Yet having been put in Hufflepuff implies a mediocrity Tom cannot overlook, being that one of its most esteemed qualities is that of a hard worker. _House-elves_ are hard workers, after all; it’s hardly a trait that merits regard in and of itself. Hard work that lacks ambition is pointless. As for tolerance, fairness, and kindness? Tom suppresses the urge to curl his lips in a sneer.

Even Godric Gryffindor’s House offers more of value than the badger does.

No, whatever the Goblet saw in Diggory, it must lie solely in magical ability. Tom can see nothing else of possible worth in him, nothing else that could’ve attracted Harry. Surely he wouldn’t have settled for someone so utterly ordinary otherwise? Yet if magical ability were truly the most important factor, then he should’ve been _worshipping_ Tom from the very start, should’ve been kissing the ground he walked on.

What does Diggory have that Tom doesn’t?

The question is maddening in that he shouldn’t even be considering it, but it’s an itch in the back of his head that he can’t quite reach and refuses to be ignored.

Were his manipulations so destructive? Did he push Harry into Diggory’s arms? He did challenge Harry—Tom recalls _that_ moment very well. In a way, he was the one to trigger this boringly average teenage affair.

When Harry glances Tom's direction once, his boyfriend turns to look as well, meeting Tom's gaze across the hall. To his credit, Diggory doesn’t seem at all shaken as Tom conducts his silent scrutiny. His eyes offer only caution, if a slight bit of wary curiosity.

Diggory’s attention is quickly diverted again by something Harry says, however, and soon enough Tom finds he's lost his appetite, and departs from his table soon after, not sparing anyone another look as he exits the Great Hall.

* * *

He finds himself entertaining a group of sixth year girls after class that afternoon—a necessary evil, if he wants to recreate the flawless reputation he possessed at Hogwarts all those decades ago—when he's approached by someone entirely unexpected.

“Gaunt,” Diggory says, looking unusually severe as his steely grey stare meets Tom’s dark eyes unflinchingly. “Got a minute?”

In front of the small group of students Tom can hardly sneer like he very much wants to do at that moment, instead conjuring up a benign smile onto his face. “Of course,” he tells Diggory, then turns to the others surrounding them. “You’ll have to excuse me, ladies. Another time?”

The girls giggle predictably and Tom makes to follow Diggory into a far less crowded corridor, slipping into a wide alcove right in front of the damaged portrait of an older gentleman, covered partially by a mouldy old cloth draped around its edges. The many dust particles are highlighted by the sunlight falling through the window across the alcove, explaining why not many students wander into this corridor much seeing as how it’s in a state of near disrepair.

Tom deigns to ignore the rather unpleasant setting for the moment. He folds his hands behind his back, standing directly in front of Diggory with just a small space between them and finding to his utter dismay that the little pest has nearly two inches on him.

“This is about Harry, isn’t it?” he notes as he ignores the wary gaze across from him openly scrutinising his face. “Is it time for you to play the protective boyfriend? How banal.”

“He doesn’t know I’m here,” Diggory replies, and this does pique Tom’s interest, if only a little bit.

“Oh?” He arches his brows in a tone of mocking. “Keeping secrets from him already, I see.”

Diggory looks like he wants to wince for a moment, until he reconsiders and clenches his jaw instead, chin lifting slightly as he matches Tom’s derisive expression with a sharp reproach. “Don’t even think about comparing the two of us.”

“As if I would ever pay you the compliment,” Tom snaps scathingly in reply without missing a beat. “What is this about then, if not to warn me away from your dear Harry?”

“He isn’t mine.” There’s a pause and a shrewd glance that Tom doesn’t like the look of at all. “Nor will he ever be yours.”

His mind blanks at the words, only for a second, but from the narrowing of Diggory’s eyes it looks like he caught the slip-up. Tom smooths his features into something slightly incredulous if not amused, curling his lip disdainfully. “Come again?”

“He told me about what you said to him, after you left the Headmaster’s office,” Diggory replies and Tom’s eyebrows twitch. “You didn’t think he’d tell me?”

“I don’t see why he would,” Tom admits, looking over Diggory in consideration. “But that is neither here nor there. If you think I’m interested in pursuing Harry romantically, then you’re far more dim-witted than I first thought.”

“Maybe, maybe not. What I do know is that you have some sort of interest in him.” Diggory crosses his arms expectantly, as if waiting for him to confess all his dirty little secrets.

“Your powers of observation are truly without equal,” Tom sneers, starting to grow impatient. What kind of games does this boy think he’s playing? If it wasn’t for the Unbreakable Vow he could’ve killed Diggory in a hundred different ways on the spot. Does he not understand who Tom is? As much as he has changed from Voldemort, they still began in the same place. For Diggory to act as if they were equals, as if Tom is not remotely dangerous to him, is nothing less than an insult. The _gall_.

Diggory stares at him for a moment, only furthering his irritation. “You’re a threat,” he states, “but maybe not the kind I first thought. You don’t want to kill him, but beyond that?”

“If there’s a point to this, you’d better find it fast,” Tom warns.

“I’m just trying to figure out what your goals are.” Diggory is expending no small amount of effort to look casual, but the tense line in his shoulders under Tom’s increasingly hostile glare is telling a different story. That, at least, offers him some small amount of satisfaction.

He scoffs. “Beyond defeating Voldemort, my goals are none of your concern.”

“They are, actually,” Diggory corrects so calmly that it incenses him to the point of pain from how hard he’s gritting his teeth. “You must have had some purpose in telling Harry that the two of you are—” Diggory grimaces, “—linked, or whatever you want to call it.”

Tom tilts his head slightly to the side, eyes glittering in the sunlight as they spot weakness. “Fated.”

“Sorry?”

“We’re fated,” Tom repeats slowly as Diggory’s eyes narrow. “Surely you heard about the prophecy?”

“What prophecy?”

“We are fated through prophecy, until death.”

Diggory opens his mouth, scowling, before he rethinks and instead says, with forced sarcasm and nonchalance, “Sure you are.” Tom smiles serenely and Diggory glares but wisely decides not to fall for the bait, to his disappointment. No matter—it’ll still be on his mind, sowing some discord if nothing else.

“Tell me something,” Tom demands as he watches Diggory carefully reign his temper in. “Why did you tell Dumbledore that I helped you?”

Diggory considers his question for a moment, replying simply with, “Why did you help me at all?”

“I didn’t want to give Crouch the satisfaction.” Looking entirely unconvinced, Diggory’s brows furrow slightly, but Tom ignores it. “Now answer my question.”

“You saved my life; I thought it only right to even the score,” Diggory answers, and Tom hates him all the more for it, for that utterly impractical noble streak. “But beyond that, I think you’ll be very useful to have around if we ever want to get rid of Voldemort permanently.”

Useful? Tom narrows his eyes slightly. Perhaps Diggory actually does possess a few brain cells in that pretty head of his, but not being a complete idiot is hardly a compliment. Regardless, being on Diggory’s good side can only offer benefits in exchange for swallowing a bit of his pride—he is closest to Harry, especially after that break-up between him and his two little friends.

If he truly wants to get back into Harry’s good graces (for reasons that are best not too closely examined), Diggory might be the key. Convincing him is going to take a bit of work, however.

“Fine,” Tom says eventually, slipping his hands into his pockets and taking on a more non-threatening, relaxed stance. “Consider us even.”

Diggory looks slightly surprised, but more so cautious. “Really?”

“I doubt your vouching for me had that big of an impact in Dumbledore’s decision—likely he’d already made up his mind the moment he saw me,” Tom scoffs. “Unbreakable Vows are generally quite reliable, if one knows how to formulate the conditions correctly.”

“What were the conditions for yours, anyway?” Diggory remarks curiously. “Not to betray us, fight You-Know-Who, destroy the Horcruxes—things like that?”

Tom remains silent, eyeing him suspiciously.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me,” Diggory continues at his lack of a reply, taking a very casual tone with him that Tom doesn’t like in the least. He’s become used to Harry’s more respectful way of addressing him, though that took a drastic change the minute he found out about Tom’s manipulation. “I’m just curious about the magic involved.”

“Why?”

“Let’s say one of your conditions is not to betray our side—would plotting something for the future still fall under the Vow?”

Tom’s jaw twitches and the slightest of self-satisfied smiles spreads on Diggory’s face. Tom truly has become far too accustomed to the way Harry and his two little friends used to speak to him, his memories filled with followers and sycophants and yes-men. Being talked to on an even level, where someone can see through the veneer and address him as an equal or talking down to him, is something he is unused to.

Dumbledore was often the latter, and Tom hated him for it. Diggory’s way is slightly more tolerable, if only because it doesn’t involve being humiliated. It offers a challenge, if a naïve one; the thought of Diggory ever being able to match him is nothing short of insulting.

“Ah,” Diggory says softly at Tom’s silence. “You can’t do it, can you? You want to, but you can’t. The Vow’s compulsion is preventing you, but you must have some idea of what you want to do, a goal to work towards at the very least.”

Yet, he’s been outplayed.

Did he underestimate Diggory? No—he began with a disadvantage. Diggory knows what he is, and knows to search for ulterior motives. Had he been unaware of Tom’s past identity, then Tom could’ve just as easily charmed him as he typically did everyone else.

“You don’t seem very surprised,” Tom remarks coolly. “Or bothered, for that matter.”

“Should I be?” Diggory shrugs. “Say what you will about why you did it, you still saved me when there was nothing in it for you. There’s potential for you to do good, but it’s up to you if you want to use it. If not...”

“Is vanquishing Voldemort not good enough?”

“That hardly counts—I’m sure you’ve got your own reasons for wanting him gone, none of which have anything to do with altruism.” Diggory pauses for a moment, thoughtful, before adding, "Also, stay away from Harry." 

Tom scoffs. “I see you’re not a complete imbecile after all,” he says, and somehow startles a laugh out of Diggory, shaking his head at the blatant insult.

“You’re a real nasty piece of work, you know that?” He briefly peeks around the corner of the alcove, towards the more crowded hallway they left a few minutes ago. “I should get going.”

“Yes, you should.”

Diggory gives him a wry smile, clapping him on the arm far more harshly than is strictly necessary. “Good talk, Tom.” And he walks off, a few seconds later loudly greeted by several students almost instantly vying for his attention.

Tom’s jaw twitches as he rubs over his arm, trying to tune out the inane chatter.

 _‘Are we making friends now?’_ the remnant pipes up.

“That depends,” Tom hisses out loud. “Are friends people you’d like to strangle with your bare hands?”

The denizen from the ruined portrait hanging off the wall of the alcove peeks out from under the cloth used to cover it, giving him a displeased look. “Well, you’re kind of a lunatic, aren’t you?”

Tom swipes at the portrait, making the figure shriek while its canvas swings precariously on the wall as Tom stalks off, ignoring the angry swearing hurled at his head a moment later.

Bloody paintings.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Last edited:** 03/12/17  
>  _Dialogue and descriptive changes for Cedric and Harry_

When Harry descends the stairs to the mostly empty common room Friday morning after completely ignoring Ron’s existence, he finds Hermione and Ginny sitting at one of the tables next to the windows.

They don’t notice him approach, Hermione too busy comfortingly rubbing Ginny’s back who looks far paler than usual.

“Ginny, it’s alright if you don’t want to go,” Hermione says. “Professor Dumbledore said he’d understand. I could just tutor you—”

“No.” Ginny shakes her head, taking a deep breath before deciding with white-knuckled fists, “I’m going.”

“Are you sure?”

“What else am I supposed to do? Just hide in my dorms whenever I—oh.” At noticing Harry, Ginny briefly falls quiet. “Hi, Harry.”

Her tone is stiff, and Harry almost winces as she looks away from him again. He doesn’t know how much Dumbledore has told her, but it doesn’t matter; she asked him to make her a promise, and he hadn’t. It’s because of his mistakes, his naivety that she now must face her greatest tormentor every time she walks into the Great Hall for dinner, every time she enters the Potions classroom.

Whether she ends up forgiving him for it or not, it doesn’t matter, because Harry certainly won’t.

“Hey,” he offers with some hesitation. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” she cuts him off firmly, rising from the table and hoisting her bag over her shoulder, barely giving him a glance. “I should get going. Maybe I can have breakfast before… before _he_ shows up.”

She hasn’t been to the Great Hall the past couple of days, heading to the kitchens instead, but it seems today she has made up her mind. Hermione eyes her with worry and exchanges a look with Harry, who’s entirely unsure of what to say but feels obligated to say _something_.

“Ginny, I—”

“I’m alright, Harry.” Her hand trembles slightly as she presses it against his arm, looking up to his face and managing a smile in spite of it all. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know, neither of us did. Don’t blame yourself, okay?”

Harry forces a rather weak smile in return, grabbing her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. He wonders if Ginny knows how strong she is.

“Okay?” she repeats when he stays quiet.

He exhales. “Okay.”

“Good.” Ginny adjusts the strap of her bag, nodding and taking a deep breath, as if steeling herself. “I’ll see you later.”

Harry watches her walk away and exit through the portrait hole before turning back to Hermione, who has a rather complicated expression on her face as she stares at him.

“How much does she know?” he asks before she has the chance to bring up Ron.

“Nothing about the Hor—” Hermione stops abruptly when a few fifth years walk by, watching them pass nervously. “The… er…”

“The You-Know-Whats?” Harry supplies helpfully.

Hermione gives him a look. “You’re _hilarious_.”

“I try.”

 Hermione stays quiet for a moment, eyeing him intently before continuing in a whisper as she leans in. “She only knows he’s You-Know-Who’s creation, and that he’s forced to help Dumbledore at the moment.”

“Right.” Harry moves to turn away from her. “I should—”

“Harry, wait!” She grabs at his sleeve, tugging at it and pulling him back. “Look, I know you feel very strongly about this, but will it really hurt just to talk to Ron?”

He yanks his sleeve out of her grip. “I’ll talk once he’s willing to listen.”

Hermione’s lips thin. “You both said some things that you shouldn’t have, but you know that all he wants is to help his family!”

“By blabbing about a secret that could collapse the entire economy should it get out!” Harry hisses, leaning in as another group of students pass them on the way to the portrait hole.

“It’s not as if he would’ve told the twins,” Hermione insists with a frown. “His parents—”

“I like his parents very much,” Harry interrupts irritably. “They’ve done a lot for me, and I’ll never forget that, but don’t you think that Dumbledore would’ve already told them about this if he thought they needed to know?”

Besides which, even if Harry would trust them with his life, he wouldn’t necessarily trust them with this secret. Arthur Weasley works at the Ministry; _someone_ would start noticing if he quit working overtime and suddenly started showing up with brand new clothes and shiny new shoes. Particularly if that someone had it out for him, such as Lucius Malfoy in the worst-case scenario.

“If you’re so worried about that, why don’t you explain your concerns to Ron rather than call him an idiot?” Hermione replies as calmly as she can, even with a scowl already building on her face. “Maybe Dumbledore just didn’t think they needed it to get by, which they don’t, but maybe just _getting by_ isn’t enough. You can’t blame them for that!”

Harry breathes out harshly in frustration. “Are you saying Dumbledore didn’t care enough to tell them about it?”

“That’s not—no! I’m sure he _does_ care, he probably just has a lot of other things to think about, but Harry, Dumbledore isn’t always right!” Hermione says and the crease between Harry’s brows deepens. “Society isn’t going to crumble just because a single family can afford to buy new clothes for their children!”

“What do you mean, he’s not always right?”

Hermione blinks, looking briefly flustered at the, admittedly, ridiculous question. “Well,” she begins carefully. “Just look at what he did with… with _him_.”

Harry opens his mouth slowly, then snaps it shut again, giving her a long look. “You mean sparing his life.”

“I mean letting him stay at Hogwarts!” Hermione corrects him fiercely. “Even if he’s under an Unbreakable Vow, just think of what Ginny has to go through every time she has to look at him! She’s still so ashamed that she can’t even tell Ron about it! And what about Hagrid? He’s the whole reason Hagrid got expelled and nearly had his life ruined!”

Guilt churns in his stomach, but even so, Harry clenches his jaw, and says, “If Dumbledore thought it necessary—”

“How is that _necessary_?”

“I’m done talking about this,” Harry decides a bit childishly, and Hermione huffs.

“Fine!” She crosses her arms, giving him a glare. “You know what Ron told me the other day? He said the only reason you don’t want him to use the trick is because _he_ was the one that taught it to us.”

Harry’s mouth slowly opens once more, Hermione arching her brows with a look of infuriating expectancy. No response comes to mind; no sound comes out.

“Well?” she prods him at his silence. “He’s right, isn’t he?” 

“He’s full of it, is what he is,” he snaps, turning away from her, ignoring her calling his name and quickly leaving through the portrait hole to descend the stairs.

What does Ron know, anyway? He doesn’t care to think of the risks involved, the danger of this ever being uncovered by the rest of the wizarding world. It’s not as if he doesn’t understand where Ron is coming from either.

Harry pauses on the stairs.

But is that still really the case? Sure, he all but grew up poor living with the Dursleys, but he inherited a small fortune from his parents and now lives with his very wealthy godfather—if anything, the gold the Ministry paid in damages will ensure a lifetime of financial stability. His robes and his books and his wand were all bought brand new; he didn’t have hand-me-downs in that department, where it _really_ counted.

He has never felt the frustration of always being overshadowed by five older brothers, of not even having the distinction of being the youngest, of garnering attention only because of who his best friend was.

Of being finally able to do something for his family, but not being allowed to.

Starting to feel like a complete arse, Harry slowly continues to climb down the steps. Still, even if he’s been insensitive in that respect, that doesn’t mean that he has some sort of stupid aversion of using whatever Riddle taught him.

Right?

He shakes his head, deciding to dismiss the matter altogether as being too absurd to even consider, but it isn’t until he finally reaches the Great Hall and sees Riddle once more seated at the staff table that a feeling of dread overtakes him.

He has double Potions this afternoon.

* * *

Spending much of the day swept up in a mixture of anxiety, irritation and guilt, it isn’t until his free period right before Potions class that Harry finds some time to relax.

The snow outside has thinned into slush on trails most walked by the students, particularly in the courtyard, making it at times rather treacherous terrain. After nearly slipping on the stone twice, Harry takes out his wand, grumbling the clean-up spell and vanishing most of the sludge in his path.

There are few others outside in this weather. He spots only two older students huddled together near a far corner, one of them smoking a cigarette. The sight strikes him as so bizarrely out of place that he pauses to look—maybe it shouldn’t have been, but he’s rarely seen any other students smoke before. He figured it was mostly a muggle thing, being used to seeing Petunia smoke outside in the garden or Vernon light up a cigar, but never having seen any adult wizards or witches do the same.

He’s so stuck on the image of wizards smoking that it’s only until several seconds have passed that he realises that one of the pair—the one who isn’t smoking—is Cedric. He’s with a Slytherin girl who notices Harry first and waves with her cigarette in hand, causing Cedric to turn around to look at Harry, face lighting up with a smile when he sees him.

“Hey, Harry!”

Feeling slightly embarrassed for having been caught staring, Harry quietly makes his way over, hoping he doesn’t look too flushed when Cedric slips his arm around his shoulders and kisses the side of his head. His lips are chapped from the cold, but still feel warm against his skin.

“Hi,” he mutters back, glancing up curiously at the girl across from him. He’s seen her before, occasionally accompanying Cedric when walking through the hallways during classes, but they’ve never really been introduced.

Being that she looks a bit intimidating Harry couldn’t ever bring himself to say hi to her. It wasn’t her tall posture, but her eyes. They were an intensely dark shade of brown, about as dark as her skin, and very pretty, but her gaze made him feel as if he’d been assessed and deemed to be lacking in some way with a single glance.

The girl’s smile is effortless. “Hello there.”

“Uh, hello,” he starts, feeling oddly nervous. He’s never been any good with talking to girls that aren’t Hermione or Ginny, it’s just too nerve-wracking. What if he says something stupid? He’s definitely going to say something stupid. “I’m, er, I’m Harry.”

“Quite.” She taps off her cigarette with the sharp tip of her green nail, ash fluttering down into the snow. “Lorelei Fawley, but I’m sure you already knew that.”

“Oh.” Harry blinks. “Was I supposed to?”

Two delicate eyebrows arch. “Hasn’t Cedric mentioned me?” she asks, her tone carefully neutral. “I’m sure he _must_ have.”

“Um… I probably forgot, then.”

Lorelei gives him a long stare, and Harry shifts on his feet, all but pressed into Cedric’s side as if trying to hide underneath his scarf. “Did you, now?”

“Sorry,” Harry apologises instinctively, having the rather sudden and uncomfortable feeling that he’s being scolded by McGonagall.

“Alright, Lor, that’s enough,” Cedric interrupts with humour in his voice, and when Harry looks up at him he’s grinning. “Don’t mind her, she likes messing with people.”

“I was being entirely serious,” Lorelei says, hiding her smile behind her hand as she takes a drag of her cigarette, but where Harry expects her to blow the smoke back out again, she blows out a pink bubble instead, popping and disappearing a moment later.

She catches him staring and extends the cigarette. “Would you like a taste, darling? It’s bubble-gum flavoured.”

“Oh, uh, no thanks,” Harry replies hastily, and she shrugs.

“Suit yourself,” she replies, taking another drag, this time blowing out pink smoke instead of gum.

“How’s your day been, Harry?” Cedric asks, and Harry huffs, burying his face into his shoulder. Cedric pats his head. “That bad, huh?”

“Could’ve been better,” Harry mutters. “But what are you doing out here, anyway? Don’t you have classes?”

“We normally have Defence around this time, but what with Moody being at St. Mungo’s…” Cedric trails off with a half-smile. “Not that I’m complaining, since I get to spend more time with you.”

Harry ducks his head and Lorelei sighs loudly.

“I believe this is the part where I give you two some alone-time?”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes.”

Harry raises his brows at Cedric in pleasant surprise as Lorelei makes up her mind immediately.

“Far be it from me to get in the way of romance,” she drawls, appearing more amused than anything as she taps twice on the butt of the cigarette, whatever was left of it burning itself up in a mere second, ashes scattering in a soft breeze. “I’ll just be—oh!”

She halts mid-way into turning her back on them, glancing at Cedric with a mischievous look. “Maybe you ought to show him the bathroom, hmm?”

Cedric stiffens, eyes darting away and to the side in embarrassment. “ _Lorelei_.”

“Have fun!” she teases, walking off with her robe fluttering in the wind as Harry turns questioningly to Cedric.

“What bathroom?”

Cedric pulls his arm away from Harry. “It’s nothing, she was just joking around again.”

“But what was the joke about?”

“Nothing!” Cedric looks entirely too flushed, even with it being cold out, starting to turn away from Harry who grabs the front of his robes, keeping him in place.

“Cedric,” he insists, trying to catch his boyfriend’s eyes that are trying their hardest to avoid him. “Come on, tell me.”

“It’s just…” Cedric awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. “You know about the Prefect bathrooms, right?”

“You have separate bathrooms?” Harry asks, raising his brows.

“I guess that’s a no.” Cedric breathes out a laugh, still avoiding eye-contact. “We do have separate bathrooms—they have these giant baths, or swimming pools, more like. Anyway, uh, before you came outside I was just telling Lorelei how I figured out how to open the Golden Egg. It was because of a tip from Moody, or… you know, Crouch—”

“ _Crouch_ told you how to solve the clue?”

“I took a few mates with me to make sure it was safe,” Cedric says, which is decidedly the wrong thing to say because Harry is frowning very deeply now, and yet Cedric smiles. “Getting jealous?”

“No,” Harry lies. “Just—concerned.”

“Don’t worry, as far as I know none of them are into blokes, and even if they were I’m already taken.” That does make him feel a bit less… _concerned_. “Anyway, I held the Egg underwater and it finally opened, giving me the next clue. Pretty sure the second task is going to be in the Great Lake.”

“What were you getting all embarrassed about, then?” Harry asks curiously, the frown still lingering on his face.

“Uh… well, the Prefect bathrooms have a bit of a reputation, if you catch my meaning,” Cedric explains, and the way he lowers his voice and leans in certainly does a lot to get his message across—maybe a bit too well, since Harry is starting to feel far too hot for the weather.

“Oh.”

“In other words,” Cedric continues hesitantly, “saying you’re going to show someone the bathroom is another way for saying you’re going to… you know.”

“ _Oh_.”

“Yeah.”

Harry, fingers still gripping Cedric’s robes, peeks up at him from underneath hair that’s grown long enough to reach the edges of his glasses. His face feels like it’s burning, and he has to force his lips to move before his courage fails him.

“Are you going to?”

Cedric blinks twice, looking slightly bewildered. “What?”

“Show me the bathroom.”

Harry has never seen a more accurate impersonation of a gaping fish.

“Um.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to, I just thought—”

“No!” Cedric blurts out, to Harry’s amusement. “I mean yes! That is…” He’s all but tripping over his own tongue, and Harry can barely suppress his grin. “What I mean is, I would like to. Love to! Maybe that’s a bit much. I would enjoy it, if you… if we could, together, I mean—are you _laughing_ at me?”

Harry buries his face in Cedric’s scarf, shoulders silently shaking.

“This isn’t remotely funny,” Cedric informs him grumpily, and Harry lifts his head to look at him after he’s sure he’s sufficiently smothered the last of his laughter, but he can’t be blamed for a teasing remark or two.

“Where did all that smooth talk about my eyes go?” Harry says, vividly recalling the first time the subject had come up between them weeks ago, when Harry had just returned from Hogsmeade and Moody—or Crouch, rather—caught him out in the hallways with a book in his hands. Cedric had come to his rescue then and Harry had blurted out an invitation for Cedric to join him in his dorms, which had lead to teasing. 

Seems like the tables have turned now that Harry is just slightly older and wiser.

At the same time he notes that Cedric’s face looks like it might either melt off his skull or spontaneously burst into flame. Harry can’t tell which option is more likely.

“Giving someone a genuine compliment and talking about…” Cedric takes a deep breath, “talking about actually having sex are two entirely different things.”

Harry's eyes light up with mischief. "Getting nervous, Diggory?" 

"Me? What?  _No,_ " Cedric says quickly, and maybe it's subconscious but he stands up straighter, all bravado. "I'm not- why would I be nervous? Nothing to be nervous about, nope." 

“If you're sure.” Harry tries not to look wholly unconvinced but from the way Cedric's shoulders sag he thinks he probably failed. “But I really do hope you’re planning on showing me the bathroom sometime soon, preferably before I die of old age.”

“Merlin, Harry.” Cedric lets out a breath, looking slightly more composed though still red in the face. “And here I was trying to be a gentleman; I didn’t know you were so eager.”

Harry raises his brows, the evening they spent in the Room of Requirement fresh in his mind.

“Okay, maybe I did know,” Cedric amends sheepishly.

Something occurs to Harry then, watching Cedric shift nervously on his feet. “Cedric, if you’re not ready, you know you can just tell me, right?”

“What?” Cedric looks bewildered, as if that possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. “Why, uh, why would you think that?”

“You just look… I don’t know, vaguely uncomfortable?”

Cedric is silent for a while, eyes flitting here and there while avoiding Harry’s face. “Maybe I’m not, um—” He coughs into his hand, “—as prepared as I should be. Books on these sorts of things are pretty hard to find and it’s not as if I could, er…”

“Ask you parents?”

Cedric winces. “No, not exactly.”

“Well,” Harry starts, “luckily for you I have a godfather who knows a suspicious amount on the topic, so if you want I could just tell you—” He stops when he finds Cedric looking mildly mortified. “What is it?”

“This is kind of embarrassing,” Cedric admits reluctantly. “I’m supposed to be the one with the experience.”

“It’s not embarrassing at all,” Harry attempts to assure him, but Cedric doesn’t look convinced. He sighs and pulls Cedric into a hug instead, Cedric tensing for a moment before slumping into his arms like a big, sad teddy bear. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, honestly.”

Cedric snorts. “Yeah, alright.”

Patting Cedric’s shoulder, Harry then says, a bit teasingly, “So, do you still want to have _the talk_?”

Cedric moves out of the hug, looking less embarrassed now and more amused. “Maybe not outside in the snow during school hours.”

Harry glances down at his red fingers. “Yeah, maybe not.” He grabs Cedric’s hand, feeling the same temperature as his own. “Let’s go get a snack from the kitchens.”

“Treacle tart?” Cedric guesses, and Harry frowns.

“How did you know that?”

“You _always_ get treacle tart.”

* * *

When Harry, with lead in his feet, manages to trudge his way towards the dungeons for Potions after Cedric has to pry Harry’s hands off his robes and promise to meet up again after class, he sees the most bizarre thing happening right outside the classroom:

Draco Malfoy, staring very intensely at Riddle’s face with just a foot or so between them, blurting out one of the _shoddiest_ lines known to bachelor men all around the world.

“Have we met before?”

Harry all but chokes as other students crowded around the locked classroom break out into murmurs, with even a whistle here and there. Malfoy turns a furious glare towards the crowd.

“Oh, bugger off, it was a serious question!”

Recovering from his minor stroke, Harry comes back to his senses just in time to recognise the familiar rhythm of sharp footsteps behind him. A glance over his shoulder confirms Snape’s presence near the stairs, now walking towards them, and he quickly slips aside, not intending on catching his ire when the class hasn’t even started yet.

Riddle in the meantime looks entirely unaffected by Malfoy’s question, conjuring up a no doubt very well-practiced smile. “I don’t believe so, no.”

The poor few students too taken in by the spectacle don’t notice Snape in time until he looms right behind them. “Move. Aside.”

A boy (who sounds suspiciously like Neville though Harry can’t confirm it with so many people in the way) all but shrieks, having to be dragged out of Snape’s path by a friend as the group parts to let the Professor pass, who unlocks the door with a wordless motion of his wand.

Filing into something that vaguely resembles a line, the small crowd pours into the classroom, Riddle remaining standing by the door like some sort of watch-dog. Though judging from the curious if not appreciative looks, most would probably sooner compare him to a pretty doll.

Harry, for his part, manages to completely ignore Riddle, and he’s almost surprised by how easy it is. He was half-expecting to be stopped or addressed, maybe even have Riddle step right in front of him just to get his attention, but Riddle does none of that.

He simply watches Harry pass by.

It should be a relief, but somehow it only puts him more on edge. Logically he knows that they aren’t supposed to know each other, so it wouldn’t be a good idea for Riddle to talk to him in an overly familiar manner, but to not even say a word?

Maybe he has become a bit too used to having Riddle’s undivided attention.

Putting these thoughts aside Harry shuffles into the room, noting Ron and Hermione are already seated near the back of the class, predictably next to each other. Ron glances his way and immediately averts his gaze, pretending to be nonchalant about ignoring him.

Harry's pride suppresses the faint urge to walk up to him and say something, deciding instead to sit nearer to the front of the class and only belatedly realizing this means he’ll be closer to Riddle and Snape for the coming two hours.

Shit. A look around the room confirms there are very few empty seats left—one of which is next to _Malfoy_ on the other side and he’d rather swallow a bag of bezoars than sit there—and with an irritated huff Harry settles in his seat.

It occurs to him he’s… well, he’s rather alone. Without Cedric here and being in a fight with Ron as well as Hermione, he feels isolated not only from his classmates in general but even from his own House.

Seamus and Dean stick to each other like glue and even though the latter has been very reluctant to side with his friend during his rows with Harry, between him and Seamus it’s obvious who Dean would pick. Ron and Hermione aren’t talking to him, he has never had a connection with the girls in his House aside from Ginny, and Neville is too terrified of Snape to ever entertain sitting in the front row.

He is well and truly alone.

A figure looms in the corner of his eyes and when Harry turns back toward the front of the class where Snape is waiting for the noise to die down, he spots Riddle almost directly in front of his desk, albeit standing a respectable distance away but nonetheless staring right at him.

Maybe not so alone after all, though Harry would prefer it to whatever _this_ is.

He stares back blankly at Riddle, not wanting to give him even the satisfaction of provoking an emotional response, until Riddle’s dark eyes finally turn away from his after several more seconds of staring when Snape begins to speak.

What was that about?

For all his angry resolve to try and shove Riddle’s presence out of his life as far as he possibly can, in the end Harry’s attention reverts back to him anyway. He blames his own bloody curiosity, but that doesn’t absolve him from the fact that he should know better by now than to let that snake wriggle his way back into his mind.

Riddle is putting up a very admirable front, though. He has already charmed every single class he’s had so far, and Harry has (more than once) heard talk of him both in the corridors and even in the Gryffindor common room. The girls—mostly the younger ones—especially love to talk about him. If Harry didn’t know what he does now, he wouldn’t blame them for it.

As Harry watches Riddle listen to Snape and survey the classroom, he appears every bit the handsome, well-mannered and benign assistant he wants you to think he is. When he catches a student’s eyes in his observing he sometimes lets a smile slip and Harry can see Lavender Brown turning bright red when he does as much to her, Parvati beside her giggling quietly behind her hand.

His posture is relaxed but attentive, hands folded behind his back and his expression open and friendly. If Harry hadn’t known it to be artificial, he wouldn’t be able to see the tightness around his mouth.

"...And this leaves you with the Girding Potion which may be consumed to increase one's endurance for a considerable number of weeks," Snape continues as Harry finally tears his gaze away from Riddle's face and turns his attention toward the lecture. "I do warn those of you who wish to experiment with this potion that the maximum dosage is no more than two of these vials."

Dean tentatively raises his hand, voicing what most of the class is thinking but not brave enough to ask. "What happens if you take more than two?"

The ill-natured, cold smile that spreads on Snape's face isn't very promising.

Riddle clears his throat behind him, breaking up the uncomfortable silence in the classroom.

"An overdose typically results in nausea and chest pains, dangerously high blood pressure, an irregular heart rate, extremely high body temperature, and if it goes untreated may even result in a heart attack," he says to Dean, ignoring Snape's glare. "If you ever end up experiencing an overdose with these symptoms, it is imperative you see a Healer immediately."

"Uh, thanks," Dean responds after a surprised pause. 

Most students still seem rather dazed when receiving an answer to a question that isn't just a malicious quip and actually valuable for once. Harry might have appreciated it as well, as he did before, but even when the information given is useful he cannot help but want to ignore it.

It's a bitter feeling. Sometimes he almost wishes he didn't know; so much of his happy memories have now been tainted because of it. Everything Riddle has done for him—it's nauseating to look back on it and see how much he has been used, how easily he was played for a fool. 

 _“He said the only reason you don’t want him to use the trick is because_ he _was the one that taught it to us.”_

Maybe Ron is right, and maybe Harry is too proud to admit this to anyone else, but he has yet to come to terms with it, with everything. Pushing it to the back of his mind and operating on anger and resentment is so much easier than actually reflecting on anything that's happened and thinking about what comes next.

But the fact that Ron realized this earlier than Harry and was the one to point it out does nothing to help the fight they're currently having, though it's more of a mutual decision to ignore each other than a real fight. Somewhere Harry knows they're both being petty, but whether he'll actually manage to muster up enough patience to do anything about it is another question entirely.

He startles from his thoughts when someone suddenly drops their bag onto the empty seat next to him, and is even more startled when he sees that it's Malfoy, setting his cauldron down on the desk beside Harry’s. 

"What the hell are you doing?" Harry blurts out, belatedly realizing a few more students in the classroom are moving around to sit in pairs. He must've missed the assignment being given. 

"Do you know Gaunt?" Malfoy asks, ignoring his question as he sits down next to him. 

Harry stiffens slightly, trying not to remember his past few interactions with Malfoy because if he does with the agitated state he’s already in, then all the blood will start rushing to his head. "Why would you think that?"

“You mean aside from the blatant staring you’ve been doing for the past twenty minutes?” Malfoy snipes. “You’re right, Potter, no idea why I would possibly think that.”

Harry opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again and after a moment settles on, “Piss off.”

“Look, you’re stuck with me for the next hour-and-a-half so you might as well start talking,” Malfoy continues as he opens up his Potions book, perusing the pages for whatever assignment Snape has given this period. “Where’s he from? What’s his lineage? The last time I heard about a _Gaunt_ it was—”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Harry shoots back irritably. “And maybe try a better pickup-line this time.”  

Watching Malfoy’s face colour (much like Lavender’s before, Harry observes with a snort) only slightly makes up for being stuck with him on a school assignment, again.

“I was not—!”

“Are you two doing alright?”

They turn in unison to Riddle, standing right in front of their desks with a pleasant smile that’s nothing more than show.

“Just fine,” Malfoy replies when Harry keeps his mouth firmly shut and proceeds to glare at his desk. “We’re the best of mates, Potter and I.”

His voice is positively dripping with sarcasm, yet—is Malfoy actually trying to endear himself to Riddle? He has tried so with other teachers before, Snape being his favourite teacher to suck-up to whenever he can, but Harry didn’t in a million years expect to see this particular development unfold.

It would’ve been hilarious if it didn’t so eerily resemble a reality that has already come to pass. Seeing Malfoy and Riddle interact now, well… if Malfoy’s dream is to be exactly like his father, he’s certainly going in the right direction.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Riddle responds brightly, and Harry suppresses the urge to gag. “Though I must say I’m surprised; it’s not often you see a Gryffindor and a Slytherin associate so freely with each other.”

“Yes, well.” Malfoy shifts a bit in his seat, appearing a tad uncomfortable now before his expression shifts into curiosity. “I take it you’ve also attended Hogwarts, then?”

Riddle laughs. “Oh, no, I was home-schooled, but everyone knows about the rivalry between your two Houses.”

“We should get back to work,” Harry interrupts coldly before Malfoy can ask another question, feeling as if he’ll explode if he has to listen to another second of this conversation.

“Of course,” Riddle replies gracefully. “Don’t be afraid to ask for help if you run into a problem.”

And with that, he moves on, wandering the class and watching everyone get started on their potion.

“What was that about?” Malfoy presses, arching his brows at Harry, like a hound smelling blood.

“You should stay away from him, Malfoy.”

“So you _do_ know him!”

“Malfoy, listen to me,” Harry hisses as he leans in, and as much of a wanker as Malfoy is, even he doesn’t deserve to get caught up in whatever plot Riddle might be spinning right at this moment. “He is not a good person—don’t give me that look, I’m not talking about hating muggles, you bloody child—he’s just… he’s bad news, alright? Do yourself a favour and keep your distance.”  

He can’t believe he’s trying to protect _Malfoy_ of all people, but at least the git seems to realize Harry isn’t saying this to spite him or get in his way. He even seems to consider Harry’s warning with some thought, leaning back into his chair and glancing Riddle’s way once before shrugging.

“Whatever you say, Potter,” he says, and that’s probably as good as it’s going to get. “Let’s get started on this Girding Potion, then, if you can manage to keep up.”

The bickering continues, though it’s not so much bickering now as it is the occasional sneer or insult. It’s starting to feel oddly familiar in a way Harry isn’t sure he should be so comfortable with, but the venom he was used to Malfoy spewing has really and truly turned into something more benign this last year.

Besides which, the fact that Malfoy has become as much of a loner in his own House as Harry currently is in his hasn’t escaped his notice. He wouldn’t say that he sympathizes, not when the people Malfoy used to associate with are all pretty terrible, but they do at least have that in common at the moment.

He’s still doubtful of whether they could ever be friends, but he’s not as resistant to the possibility now as he was three months ago.

When Snape stops by their table at the end of the lesson to evaluate their potion (most of which Malfoy did while Harry offered motivational support by insulting him into doing better), Harry can see the displeasure plain in his face at the two of them being paired up.

“Well done,” is the only thing he says to Malfoy, and moves along to the pair behind them.

It occurs to Harry that pairing up with Malfoy has actually made him immune to getting House Points docked off his failures.

“Hey, Malfoy,” he says as they’re packing up in tolerable silence. “Do you think maybe… no, never mind.”

“What?” Malfoy gives him a frown. “Out with it.”

“Well, working together wasn’t so terrible, and I was thinking—”

“You want to use me so Professor Snape stops failing you in class, don’t you?”

“Er.” Harry scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Malfoy stares at him for a moment with the frown still on his face, before slinging his bag over his shoulder and averting his gaze. “Just don’t get in my way, Potter.”

Harry looks at him saunter off, and as solitary as he has become the arrogance is still prominent as he watches Malfoy snap at a Housemate to move aside so he can stroll through the doorway unhindered.

He thinks maybe he made a bad decision, but it’s one he’ll have time to regret later because Riddle is looking his way again across the classroom and Harry can’t leave fast enough.

In his hurry he bumps into someone trying to walk out the door at the same time beside him, and he almost mutters a sorry until he realizes it’s Ron.

Ron blinks at him, startled, then scowls and before Harry can even get a word out he stalks off, Hermione on his heels giving Harry a somewhat apologetic glance in passing before disappearing out the doorway.

Harry starts to feel the distinct sting of loneliness while he walks out into the corridor without exchanging a single word with anyone, until he feels two very familiar arms slip around his waist from behind and a smack of lips on his neck.

“Hey, you,” Cedric greets him fondly as Harry turns to face him with a smile, and suddenly can’t remember why he ever felt alone at all.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Last edited:** 24/12/17   
> _Dialogue changes for Tom and Draco_

February the twenty-fourth—the date of the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament—is exactly five weeks away.

Rita sips from her glass, the Dragon Barrel Brandy sliding down her throat smooth as silk before it warms in her belly. For evenings such as these she prefers an Ashwinder wine, but her private stock ran out two days ago and they don’t sell anything else worth drinking at this shoddy inn.

She all but glares out the window towards the castle, chewing on her lower lip. The deadline for a front-page worthy article is in a week and her initial lead on Hogwarts’ gamekeeper and his… _exotic_ origins went nowhere after trying in vain to interview the students.

Usually that wouldn’t stop her, but she can’t exactly write an entire article based solely on the fact that he’s a half-giant when doing so might betray her methods. The point is to discredit him as a teacher (thereby discrediting Dumbledore), and his genealogy is just one factor out of many.

But it seems she has underestimated how fond, or indifferent, the Hogwarts students are of their eccentric professor. Not even Malfoy had much at all to say about him beyond general and vague remarks of his clumsiness, unable to give her any examples of incompetence she might have been able to use.

She knocks back the rest of her glass and sets it down on the windowsill, licking her lips clean of liquor as she considers other possible angles.

As amusing as her exposé on the romance between Diggory and Potter was, briefly stirring up the crowds with various streaks of bigotry and leading to the year’s highest sales, she has already milked that for all its worth.

For a while, however, she thought there might be opportunity for more when she overheard the bit of quarrel between Potter and an unexpected third party:

_“I might’ve been once.” A pause, Rita halting in the corridor and glancing up toward the stairs from where the voices are coming from, faintly. She has to strain to catch every word. “But you changed me.”_

_“What?” That, if she’s not mistaken, is Harry Potter. “Are you serious? Even now you’re… you’re trying to, what, sweet-talk me?”_

_Oh, my._

_“If you’d let me finish what I was trying to explain,” the young man who is decidedly_ not _Cedric Diggory snaps, “then you’d understand! When I—”_

_Footsteps behind her startle her from her eavesdropping, whatever words follow briefly drowned out by the sound of a heavy door opening and closing. She remains very still, considering transforming until the noise goes away and—_

_“SHUT UP!”_

_Rita holds her breath, scrambling to take out her spelled quill and notebook to record every single word, missing something one of them mutters before continuing to listen in._

_“Do you hate me so?” the unfamiliar male says, and Rita can barely contain her excitement at what she’s just blindly stumbled upon. “Go ahead, then. Do it. But you won’t—you need me, after all.”_

_Potter whispers something, but it’s too quiet for Rita to understand. Not that she needs to; the way this conversation is going she can make an educated guess. But what’s this about Potter_ needing _whoever this mysterious person is? A scorned lover, blackmailing him somehow? Does Diggory know? And do what? Is Potter threatening him?_

_“You need me.”_

_She hears footsteps coming from above and quickly hurries back the way she came, mind spinning with possibilities._

Turns out, it was none other than Tom Gaunt who Potter had been arguing with. Rita confirmed as much when she visited the former earlier that week, and she can only assume Potter was having some sort of affair with Gaunt.

While not exactly the same as a teacher-student relationship, it would still cause plenty of raised eyebrows to say the least. She’s not certain how effective this angle would be in smearing Dumbledore as a consequence, but people always _love_ a romance gone wrong, especially if cheating is involved.

Yet acting on a single, fragmented conversation would have been crass, even for her. She needed more information, and it was just a hunch that lead her to look into the very suddenly appointed teacher’s assistant, though it could have been a dead-end just as easily. As such, her decision to snoop around further by approaching Gaunt was just to test the waters, so to speak.

What she did not anticipate was encountering a shark in those waters.

Her initial impression of him was that she could certainly understand why Potter would be tempted into starting an affair. Gaunt is strikingly attractive, that much can’t be denied, and she assumed (perhaps naively) that he was just another pretty boy and would be cowed easily enough once she alluded to overhearing his conversation with Potter.

From what glimpses she got from his room there was nothing to make her think otherwise. It was very plain, devoid of any personal belongings, indicating he had moved in very recently. He seemed ordinary enough, setting aside his good looks.

Evidently, she underestimated him. If she wants to pursue this any further, she will have to be very cautious in how she investigates Gaunt and his connection to Potter. Emphasis on _if_ ; the risk might not be worth it.

But then, what if it is?

Rita mulls it over a while longer before deciding to leave her room and descend the stairs of the inn to the pub for dinner. A perfect place to catch the latest gossip, and Madam Rosmerta is always oh so accommodating in that respect.

But as she walks through the corridor towards the steps, she notices the door of one of the rooms adjacent to hers wide open. She stops for a moment, curiosity piqued, and peers inside to see a small House-elf cleaning up, spelling a mop to clean the floors while wiping down the table himself. The creatures are often ignored by those that don’t know any better: they are _excellent_ sources of information.

Unable to help herself, Rita approaches the doorway, glancing in to search for anyone that might be staying here.

When she can’t find anyone else present, she says to the House-elf, “Expecting a new guest?”

The House-elf who had his back turned to her startles so much he jumps, quickly turning around and looking up at her nervously.

“Yes, mistress Skeeter!” he squeaks. “Madam Rosmerta asked me to prepare a room.”

“Really?” Rita says, genuinely surprised. Usually Rosmerta would not bother with specific instructions since keeping a room clean is simple enough for anyone with even a modicum of magical ability. Whoever this guest is must be quite important. “For whom?”

The House-elf looks reluctant to speak.

“Come now,” Rita coaxes. “This is a public inn, in the busiest wizarding village in the country! I’ll find out eventually, you might as well answer.”

“I suppose Madam Rosmerta never said it was a secret,” the House-elf admits, fiddling with a sleeve of its oversized, tattered robe.

“Then there’s no harm in telling me, is there?” Rita says kindly. “So, who will be joining us at the famed Three Broomsticks?”

The House-elf considers it for a moment longer, before he finally says, “Sirius Black, mistress.”

Rita’s pink lips slowly part, then close, and part again in a very measured way.

“Really?” she says, nonchalantly. “And why on earth would Sirius Black leave his cushy muggle penthouse in London to come all the way out here?”

The House-elf stares up at her with his big, earnest eyes. “Why, he’s going to be teaching at Hogwarts, of course!”

Rita’s mouth unfurls into a smile.

* * *

With the snow still thick upon the castle grounds, none of the students were looking forward to Care of Magical Creatures. Last week’s lesson had been substituted by Professor Grubby-Plank, and although the unicorns had been a nice distraction, they had been informed that Hagrid would be returning to teaching this week after not being seen or heard from for quite a while.

Harry was considering visiting his cabin but didn’t want to corner him; he has no idea how Hagrid is handling the situation with Riddle, and though hearing it from Dumbledore might have assuaged him, he’s doubtlessly still uncomfortable with Riddle’s presence.

Not to mention that Hagrid isn’t exactly the best at keeping secrets.

He ponders the matter for a while as he follows the rest of his Housemates (Ron and Hermione walking somewhere near the very front, far away from him) towards Hagrid’s cabin, thoughts drifting off. Hagrid isn’t the only teacher who has been indisposed: Professor Moody, the _real_ one, will apparently be at St. Mungo’s for quite some time to come, which means they will likely also be getting a substitute for Defence sometime soon, if one can even be found on such short notice.

Harry sets that aside for now as he catches Hagrid’s figure waiting for them in front of his cabin, rubbing his palms together as the class approaches.

He also glimpses Malfoy, walking among the other Slytherins who are, as always, keeping several feet between them and the Gryffindors. Unsurprisingly he’s not talking to anyone, but seems comfortable enough to tolerate whatever they’re discussing amongst themselves. Clearly his solitary lifestyle has been entirely self-inflicted and the others in his House have not alienated him yet.

Turning his attention to Hagrid, Harry is almost taken aback by how ordinary he seems. While it isn’t as if Harry was anticipating him being on the brink of a meltdown, at a glance you wouldn’t be able to see there was anything at all amiss with Hagrid.

“Good mornin’ class,” he greets them good-naturedly, sounding just the same as he was before Christmas break. “Hope ev’ryone enjoyed their holidays.”

Just as Harry begins to think that perhaps Dumbledore hasn’t told him yet and somehow Hagrid managed to avoid Riddle for the past week-and-a-half, Hagrid glances right at him before  hastily moving on to giving them a reminder about their past lessons with the Skrewts.

Harry waits patiently as they’re instructed to take their Skrewts out of their cages and for a walk to the chagrin of many students, particularly Malfoy who bemoans loudly to anyone who will listen, “Out in the bloody _snow_?”

Making sure he is the last person who hasn’t released his Skrewt yet, he casually (or what he hopes passes for casually, but it’s hard to stroll when the snow is up to your ankles) walks over to Hagrid who starts looking a bit nervous, avoiding Harry’s gaze.

“Hullo, Hagrid,” he says, watching Hagrid starting to fiddle with his glove. “How’ve you been doing?”

“Oh, me? Jus’ fine, nothin’ to worry about,” Hagrid replies quickly.

“You, er…” Harry glances around, making sure no one is close enough to hear and in the process notices Ron staring their way, though he quickly averts his eyes—Harry decides to ignore him. “You know about Snape’s new teaching assistant?”

Hagrid winces _,_ face turning grim, and that’s answer enough. “Yeah, Dumbledore told me plen’y.”

Harry almost wants to ask how much Dumbledore has told him, precisely, but this is neither the time or the place. “And you’re okay with it?”

“Well, I can’ exactly say I’m happy about it, Harry,” Hagrid admits honestly. “But I trus’ that Dumbledore knows what he’s doin’; he’s always got a plan.”

Harry nods, pensive. If the Headmaster does have a plan, he’s likely not to share the details with anyone. He has always been cryptic, but Harry didn’t quite realize how secretive Dumbledore truly is until the whole truth—of his being accidentally made a Horcrux—was revealed, and only because Dumbledore judged him mature enough to handle it.

Had Harry lost his temper then, had he decided to argue, Dumbledore would’ve probably kept it a secret from him for as long as he could. Would he have ever even told Harry? It bothers him to have to consider the possibility, because the more he thinks on it the more he starts to question what else he’s being kept in the dark about.

“Are yeh alright, Harry?” Hagrid says, snapping him out of his thoughts, large brows pulled together in concern.

Hagrid definitely knows most of what happened, if not all of it.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah.” This time Harry is the one to avoid Hagrid’s gaze. “I’m fine.”

“Yer not talkin’ to Ron and Hermione,” Hagrid points out, and Harry sighs.

“Ron and I are having a stupid fight, it’ll blow over.” When Hagrid looks unconvinced, Harry adds, “Really, I’m doing fine! I’ve got, um, I can talk to Cedric, if I… you know.”

He stammers when he realizes he hasn’t actually discussed this with Hagrid yet as the subject never really came up before. Hagrid doesn’t seem to notice his awkwardness, though, or if he does he chooses to not remark on it.

“He’s a good lad,” he agrees approvingly instead, and for the first time that day Harry smiles. “Jus’ don’t bottle it all up, yeh hear me?”

“When do I ever…” Hagrid stares at him and Harry lets the protest drop with a sag of his shoulders. “Right, I’ll try not to.”

“Good.” Hagrid turns towards where Harry’s Skrewt is starting to bang against the cage. “Now I’d get to tendin’ to yer Skrewt before it breaks out on its own.”

“Yeah.” Harry makes to turn away, but pauses, looking back at his Professor. “And thanks, Hagrid.”

“Fer what?” Hagrid replies simply, and Harry shakes his head and moves along, feeling a little bit lighter. He supposes his concern, while well-intentioned, might have been largely unwarranted; Hagrid has survived more than most, a ghost from his past isn’t going to scare him, even if it is Riddle.

As he gets to cautiously opening the cage holding his temperamental Skrewt, he finds his eyes invariably drawn towards a sound of laughter across the snow-covered field, finding Ron snickering at Hermione’s practically being dragged around by her Skrewt while desperately trying to hold onto the leash.

They seem to be doing fine without him.

* * *

After a passable day, his free-time spent mostly trying to study with Cedric in the Library but getting distracted by an on-going game of footsie underneath the table, Harry finds himself one of the first to arrive in the Great Hall the next morning.

He notices to his relief that Riddle isn’t present at the staff table, and then spots Ginny engaged in a heated discussion with the Weasley twins and Neville, though they don’t seem to be arguing each other.

“It’s not right,” he catches Ginny saying hotly as he walks up to the small group, most of the other Gryffindors still absent.

“Well, of course it’s not right,” Fred replies lightly. “But as long as the Daily Prophet’s got its sales going up…”

“He didn’t even get the chance to be announced as a Professor!”

“Come on, you don’t reckon he’s gonna get booted out immediately just because of one article?”

“It _is_ on the front page,” George interjects. “I’m just wondering how she even found out about it; Harry’s love life might not have been a very big secret, but you’d think—"

“Hi Harry!” Neville says loudly, cutting off whatever George had been about to say, and suddenly this end of the table is very silent.

“What’s on the front page?” Harry asks nonchalantly as he takes a seat between Ginny and Neville, adjacent to the twins who exchange looks.

“You haven’t seen?” Fred asks, and George simultaneously pulls out a copy of that morning’s Daily Prophet. He hands it over to him across the table, and one look at the front page has Harry’s blood running cold.

_" **THE BLACK SHEEP**_

_Albus Dumbledore, eccentric Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has never been afraid to make controversial staff appointments, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent._

_In September of this year, he hired Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, the notoriously jinx-happy ex-Auror, to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts, a decision that caused many raised eyebrows at the Ministry of Magic, given Moody's well-known habit of attacking anybody who makes a sudden movement in his presence. Mad-Eye Moody, however, looks responsible and sane when set beside his rumoured replacement, former Azkaban resident Sirius Black._

_Black, whose return to civilized society has been shrouded in controversy, was only recently exonerated after spending over a decade within the infamous prison for the murders of twelve muggles as well as James and Lily Potter, whose son he is now in legal custody of._

_While many, such as Dumbledore himself, seem sympathetic to Black’s plight—a man tormented and tortured for years for crimes he did not commit—others feel that our sympathy should not cloud our judgement._

_During Pettigrew’s trial, Black reportedly had a meltdown on the stands and drew his wand, firing a possibly lethal spell at Pettigrew who was restrained in his chair with chains, narrowly missing him by a hair._

_‘He looked quite mad,’ an anonymous member of the Wizengamot tells. ‘Not that Pettigrew doesn’t deserve it, but Black seemed completely out of his mind; poor Harry Potter had to try and hold him back before someone finally managed to stun him!’_

_While debate can be had over whether Black was justified in his anger or not, it begs the question: do we really want to allow someone so damaged by years of torture to be around children?_

_‘The effects of extended exposure to Dementors should not be underestimated,’ says Wendy Mitchells, Mind Healer at St. Mungo’s who treated Black for several months upon his exoneration, before Black was transferred to another Healer’s care due to persistent aggression shown at their sessions and refusal to take his medication. ‘His outburst at the Pettigrew trial is typical for survivors who have not yet processed their trauma.’_

_It should be noted that, prior to ever being imprisoned, Black already had a long track-record of reckless and impulsive behaviour recorded in constant detentions and even a few suspensions during his time as a student at Hogwarts, which was likely the cause of his being disowned by his family at sixteen years old._

_‘It is very possible that this behaviour may have evolved into a destructive pattern after having Dementors inflicted upon him for twelve years,’ Mitchells adds. ‘Frankly, there are very few cases of victims who have survived exposure over lengthy periods of time, and of those that are known many have been prone to committing violent acts, either upon themselves or upon others.’_

_Doubtlessly Dumbledore is aware of this as well, yet made the decision to hire him in spite of many members on Hogwarts' Board of Governors voicing their reservations on the appointment. Moreover, Black’s reported roommate, the werewolf Remus Lupin, certainly seems to point toward—"_

At this point Harry slams the paper back down on the table, boiling hot anger coloring in his face. The article is of course accompanied by a picture of Sirius’ mug shot of when he was first arrested, screaming at whoever is taking the picture. It’s the same one that was used on his wanted poster.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Ginny says. “That horrible woman—”

“Honestly, mate, she’s got nothing,” Fred chimes in. “If anyone really cared about unstable people teaching at Hogwarts they would’ve kicked Snape out years ago.”

“I’m more worried about falling off the stairs on a daily basis than the mental health of a teacher,” George agrees. “This entire school is a death trap.”

“If he’s friends with Professor Lupin I don’t think any of the students will care,” Neville says. “Everyone really liked Professor Lupin.”

Harry appreciates their compassion, he does, but it’s not helpful when his fuse is about to blow. Writing the article on him and Cedric was one thing, and his ire then was clouded by insecurity, but this is different. This is enraging.

Naturally Skeeter didn’t bother asking Alouette, Sirius’ current Healer, for her opinion since that might have contradicted the rubbish she put in her front page scoop. That is perhaps what is most infuriating to Harry: none of this is about the truth, it’s about an agenda, it’s about stirring controversy, it’s about sales. 

“Hey,” someone says behind him and Harry is ready to snap at whoever it is to piss off and leave him alone when he turns around and sees Ron.

He is so caught off-guard that he’s being spoken to he just ends up staring mutely at Ron, who shifts his weight around awkwardly.

“So, er.” Ron clears his throat which is currently, together with his ears, very red. “That Skeeter woman is full of shit.”

“Yeah,” Harry replies slowly, aware that they have an audience but deciding not to care. “I know.”

“Not that it matters what she writes anyway,” Ron continues. “Sirius is probably laughing it all off right now—but, hey, you must be happy about him being hired, right?”

In all his anger, Harry hadn’t even been able to process that fact, but now that Ron mentions it, he finds that he _is_ happy about it. Happy, and nervous. But that’s not really what this conversation is about.

“Yeah.” Harry pauses, then says, “Ron, about earlier—”

“I’m still mad at you,” Ron cuts him off, and it’s blunt but it’s not said maliciously; he’s just being honest. “I need some more time to think about it.”

There isn’t much he can say to that. “Yeah.”

Ron looks like he wants to add something else, but instead says, “See you later.”

He walks off without saying another word—not even to his siblings—towards the other end of the table and sitting by himself, Hermione not having arrived yet.

“You guys are making this way harder than it needs to be,” Ginny states after a short pause, and returns to eating her buttered toast.

Harry can’t say that she’s wrong.

* * *

_‘I am disappointed in you, Draco.’_

The black ink has been staring at him from the yellowed surface of the parchment for what feels like an hour, but is likely closer to five minutes. Draco reaches out to fold the letter shut, then thinks better of it and continues to stare back at it.

Someone told on him.

Not that there was anything to tell, or rather there shouldn’t have been, but likely one of his Housemates told one of their relatives who told others and somehow it reached his father’s ears: Draco Malfoy has been associating himself with Harry Potter.

Calling it an association is a stretch. Even if they worked on two school assignments together during the entire year, it’s not as if Malfoy has joined Potter’s little gang of misfits and renounced his heritage. Yet, even past his indignation, he recognizes what this is: a warning.

Had it been anyone else but him they would’ve been ousted from Slytherin’s social circles ages ago, but being that he is who he is, his Housemates have instead decided to reprimand him through a simple but effective humiliation. That is, effective had he been anyone else.

He understands their wariness and he can even admit that it was a clever ploy; rather than try to appeal to him directly, knowing he would likely ignore them, they sent a message through his father, but his patience with his House has been wearing thin. Even thinner, now.

Draco is not a muggle-lover, he is not a blood traitor, he is not a sympathetic ear to the disadvantaged. He is starving for validation—from his betters, and his Housemates are _not_ his _betters_.

“What’s that you’ve got there, Draco?” Theo asks as he walks into the dorm-room smothered with green, finding Draco sitting at the edge of his bed with the letter still in his hands.

“Nothing important,” Draco replies as he calmly folds the letter and slips it back into the envelope, putting it aside on his nightstand.

Whoever instigated this mess possesses some measure of subtlety, which rules out Crabbe and Goyle. Pansy is barely a consideration seeing as how she’s still smitten with him in spite of his distancing himself as of late, which leaves only two suspects within his immediate circle of acquaintances.

It’s either Theo or Zabini, and seeing as how Theo prefers to keep to himself, that only leaves one prime suspect.

Of course it could also be that someone else entirely mentioned it in passing to another and the rumour somehow spread from there, but that’s unlikely to happen among purebloods. Within Slytherin circles, gossip always benefits _someone_ —such as an arrogant prig who thinks he’s oh so above the fray because his bloody cufflinks were made from crystallized unicorn horn imported from fucking Romania.

Then again, it could’ve been someone from another House. Draco doesn’t want to rule out the possibility, but it’s so much easier to have a scapegoat.

“Have you seen Blaise?” he asks Theo who is busy rummaging through his trunk.

“Last I saw him he was in the Library,” Theo mumbles, pulling out his scarf embroidered in Slytherin colours and inspecting it briefly before turning to Draco. “Why? Are you two on speaking terms again?”

“No,” Draco responds curtly, but doesn’t clarify either, and Theo sighs.

“You know that there’s been…” Theo hesitates, putting his scarf down on his bed and approaching Draco’s. “That there’s talk about you lately, don’t you?”

Talk.

“Don’t insult me.”

“All I’m saying is, if this thing—whatever it is that’s gotten into you—continues, watch your back,” Theo sits down on the edge of his own bed, facing Draco.

“You’ve been a loner this entire time and you’re doing just fine,” Draco points out accusatorily.

“ _I’m_ not Draco Malfoy,” Theo responds. “ _I_ didn’t go on a crusade against Potter during my first three years and then suddenly turned around and started making nice.”

“I’m not making nice with him!”

“Last year you wouldn’t be caught dead with him at the same table, now you’re sitting next to him and chatting away together during Potions class.”

Draco opens his mouth, but finds that there is no retort he can level against Theo, because he’s right. It’s all about the optics, and his optics look very bad.

“I still hate him,” Draco says after a long pause, and he should be disturbed about the possibility that he’s actually lying, but he isn’t even bothered by it, and _that_ is really disturbing. “But Potter has his uses.”

“Playing both sides, now?” Theo looks markedly sceptical. “That’s not your style, Draco.”

“How would you know what my style is?” Draco snaps.

“Unlike you I pay attention to people.”

“Whatever.” Draco gets up from his bed. “I’m leaving.”

“To where?” Theo asks curiously as he stalks off toward the door.

“None of your business!”

Slamming it shut behind him brings him some measure of satisfaction, which all but disappears when he finds himself in a mostly empty common room, save for some fifth years gathered around a game of wizard’s chess at one of the tables.

Draco ignores them as he tries not to let his temper control him, crossing the common room thankfully uninterrupted and unimpeded. The dungeons seem just as empty, which isn’t that surprising on a Friday afternoon: most students are either in the Great Hall, in the Library or enjoying the snow out on the grounds.

His footsteps echo against the stone walls as he heads toward the stairs, and he still has to get used to a twofold feeling of vulnerability and freedom, of not having someone at his back, following his every step, listening to his every word.

He intends to go to the Library until he remembers Theo said that’s where Zabini was last, and decides instead to head for the grounds. He doesn’t have his gloves or his scarf with him, but maybe the cold will help cool his head.

But then he passes by a door left slightly ajar.

It’s nothing extraordinary about the door that makes Draco pause, except maybe for the fact that he always remembered this particular door to be locked. He has never seen it open; it was likely used as some sort of storage, or maybe it was one of the many rooms in Hogwarts that have gone unused. It’s certainly in use _now_.

Draco considers the door. He is more cautious than he is curious, but he’s hearing the unmistakable sound of a bubbling cauldron and figures it must be Severus, so he takes a step closer toward the gap in the door and peers inside.

He can see a tall figure standing in front of a table with potion ingredients, right in front of a window that’s left open to let the smoke out, dressed entirely in black but too tall to be Severus.

“What is it?”

Draco freezes, watching the figure turn around to face the door. Is he talking to—

“Yes, I’m talking to you,” Gaunt says patiently, and Draco flushes red in embarrassment, pulling the door open to reveal himself.

“I was just wondering why this door was open,” he responds, attempting to be nonchalant, but Gaunt just looks amused and Draco feels like a child.

“This is my room.” Gaunt flicks a finger toward a vial sitting on the table, making it levitate and dump its contents—honeywater?—into the cauldron being stirred by a wooden spoon, and Draco barely manages not to gawk at the _casual_ use of wandless magic, instead hastily directing his attention away toward the room itself.

The walls are the same green as the Slytherin dorm, a single, luxurious bed on the left side of the room with an ornate nightstand, a tall dresser in the corner and a full-length, silver mirror beside it. The top shelf on Gaunt’s wall is filled with books, the shelf beneath it holding potion ingredients: various multi-coloured feathers in a glass cup, glittering stones and dried plants, a single vial filled with a red liquid that looks like blood, bottles and jars of various magical animal parts—

“I’ve made it home, as you can see,” Gaunt says, interrupting Draco’s staring.

Draco refocuses his gaze on the teacher’s assistant, who has traded his long robes for a more informal attire of a black turtleneck with its sleeves pulled up, fitted trousers and black leather dress shoes, holding a light-coloured wand in his hand that somehow matches his outfit.

He almost looks impossibly handsome, and Draco doesn’t quite well know what to do with that observation. Pansy, he imagines, might have actually swooned, but lately he hasn’t really cared much about what Pansy might or might not do.

“What are you brewing?” he inquires instead, and Gaunt glances behind him at his cauldron which is exuding a soft blue-tinted smoke.

“A Rejuvenating Draught,” Gaunt answers, but does not elaborate.

Draco decides he is bored of standing around the doorway and takes a few steps inside. “You said you were home-schooled?”

“I did.”

“Why not go to Hogwarts?”

Gaunt eyes him silently for a moment in a way that makes Draco feel very much like he’s being assessed, before answering, “I grew up in Germany.”

“Really?”

What was a Gaunt doing in _Germany_? Their line should have died out in England.

“Draco,” Gaunt says, but not in the way his father says it, or Zabini says it, or even Severus says it—it’s quiet and purposeful, somehow more personal. “Why don’t you ask me the question you came here to ask?”

_“You should stay away from him, Malfoy.”_

Draco hesitates, but only for a moment.

“How do you know Potter?”

Seeming entirely unsurprised, Gaunt flicks his finger again and the fire underneath his cauldron shrinks down to a simmer, and now Draco is starting to become irritated because he is almost certain that Gaunt is showing off. That, or he is so used to doing things without his wand it doesn’t even occur to him what it must seem like to Draco.

“Mind if we go for a walk?”

“A walk?” Draco repeats dubiously.

Gaunt smiles with patience. “You shouldn’t be in my room, Draco.”

Draco opens and closes his mouth as Gaunt rolls his sleeves down and walks past him, waiting for Draco to gather his composure and follow him out before shutting the door behind him. Gaunt begins to walk down the corridor and Draco keeps in step with him, feeling a bit peeved when he realizes he has to quicken his pace to keep up with Gaunt’s long legs.

“So, you wanted to know about Harry and me,” Gaunt says, appearing supremely unconcerned with the question even though Draco imagines it to be a sensitive subject, considering Potter’s reaction. “We’re acquainted, but our relationship is… strained, at the moment.”

“He doesn’t seem to like you much,” Draco replies, choosing his words carefully.

“I could say the same about you.”

Gaunt isn’t looking at him, but Draco feels the jab all the same.

“So why are you telling me all this?” Draco asks with due wariness, Potter’s warning still ringing clear in his mind. Gaunt is not what he seems—the familiarity in his face is still there, and yet no matter how hard he thinks on it Draco can’t place him anywhere.

They come to a halt in front of the stairs.

“You see, Draco,” Gaunt says, and there’s a way to how he speaks his name that is so subtle that it just slips under his skin, “I have wronged Harry in the past, and I’m trying to find a way to make it up to him—you seem to be in a similar situation, so I find myself curious.”

Draco can see where this is going, and he doesn’t like it. “I don’t want to be friends with Potter.”

“No?” Gaunt folds his hands behind his back, and Draco resists the urge to take a step back even though he very much feels the difference in height, “You seem to get along well enough.”

“We tolerate each other, that’s all.” At Gaunt’s prolonged stare, Draco blurts, “He’s just so bloody noble about everything, thinks he’s some sort of great saviour, I can’t stand it!”

“That sounds like envy to me.”

“Envy?” Draco reacts by nearly shouting, which doesn’t exactly help his case. “ _Potter_? Please!”

Gaunt just smiles evenly in a way that’s almost condescending, dark eyes staring right through Draco. “I’m not a Slytherin, Draco, you don’t have to put up an act with me.”

“This isn’t an act,” Draco snaps, but feels more and more like he’s just futilely banging against the solid wall of Gaunt’s imperturbable composure. “I just—he hasn’t done anything special, yet everyone knew his name when he was a bloody baby!”

“Harry would be the first one to agree with you,” Gaunt replies. “I don’t think it’s really him you hate, is it, Draco?”

“Does it matter?” Draco glares at Gaunt, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to figure out what Gaunt’s angle could possibly be in all this. “I’m not going to be holding hands with Potter any time soon.”

As if Gaunt read his mind, he responds, “I have no particular interest in your relationships either way, but it is my responsibility to look out for my students.”

"And I need looking out for?" 

"You're being ostracized, Draco." 

The uncomfortable truth hangs in the air, bearing down on him like a heavy weight. Draco knows this, knows Blaise is taking advantage of the vacuum his absence left within Slytherin's social circles to expand his own influence, but his recent introspection has been so distracting that Draco hadn't an opportunity to address it. Or rather, it was easier to ignore it. 

"I might not know much about Slytherin, but even in my very short time being here it's glaringly obvious how insular your House is compared to the others," Gaunt continues, building up to something that Draco isn't sure he wants to hear. "As a concerned teacher, let me offer you some advice; perhaps it would be wise to consider looking outsideof Slytherin." 

"And how would that help me?" Draco snaps, not remotely warm to the idea of playing nice with halfbloods and muggleborns. "In case you forgot, I practically live in the Slytherin dorms." 

"You might think your pureblood fellows are at the very top of your social hierarchy, but have you even considered the alternative?" Gaunt's lips twist in a faint smile that Draco isn't quite sure what to make of. "You've already been mingling with it quite a bit, lately." 

"What, you mean Potter?" Draco all but spits, incredulous. "You're not seriously suggesting—" 

"Consider who I'm talking about, Draco," Gaunt says patiently. "Not just Potter, but The Boy Who Lived. Not just Potter, but the icon who swayed public opinion towards closing Azkaban with a single speech." 

Draco's mouth, which had been open to spout off before Gaunt had even finished talking, slowly closes again as a part of him comes to the undeniable realization that Gaunt is right. Who are his Slytherin peers, compared to the fame of the great Harry Potter? Nothing but grains in the sand. 

The other part of him is  _fuming_ , of course, and the two conflicting sides—reason and heart—render him speechless.

“I figured you wouldn’t be amenable to the idea,” Gaunt says, completely unbothered by Draco’s stunned silence, though it doesn't last long as he soon finds his voice again.

"Look, Gaunt—"

"Please, call me Tom.”

He is _not_ going to start calling him Tom. “What makes you think Potter would even entertain the idea of being-being _friends_ with me?”

“Harry isn’t as pigheaded as you seem to think,” Gaunt answers honestly, and while Draco might be irritated about this whole conversation, it doesn’t seem as if Potter’s warnings were entirely warranted. Sure, he seems clever enough, but nothing that hints malicious or sinister. If anything he seems to genuinely care about what Potter thinks of him, which is not relatable to Draco.

At all!

“Pigheaded enough about his bloody muggles,” Draco mutters, then half-stiffens because he’s not sure if that’s the type of remark Gaunt is receptive to, but then Gaunt laughs.

“He’s an idealistic one, my Harry,” he says, which startles Draco for a number of reasons, which inevitably leads him back towards frustration.

What could someone like Gaunt—pureblood, wealthy, intelligent, charismatic, good-looking—possibly see in Potter? What does Potter have that he doesn’t?

“I should go,” Draco decides; Gaunt has given him much to think about. 

“So soon?” At Draco’s questioning look, Gaunt explains, “I examined the Girding Potion you made with Potter during the last lesson, and I noticed some minor mistakes that could use improvement.”

Draco almost sputters in indignation.

“What kind of mistakes?” he demands, and Tom smiles, motioning to accompany him up the stairs as he heads up the steps.

Draco follows.


	35. Chapter 35

_“…reported roommate, the werewolf Remus Lupin, certainly seems to point toward this destructive pattern Healer Mitchells alludes to._

_Lupin, who is a childhood friend of Black’s, was a professor at Hogwarts—holding the same cursed teaching position as Moody did and now Black will after him—until his ailment was leaked to the press._

_That Black should choose to continue to associate himself with a werewolf raises even further questions about not just his mental faculties but his physical condition as well. At best, Black is an unstable man without the lucidity to judge how certain relations might be perceived by the general public. At worst, one might have to question whether there isn’t more to this tawdry affair than meets the—”_

Sirius yanks the newspaper out of his hands.

“Stop polluting the living room with rubbish, will you?” he says, and for once Remus is the one struggling to keep his composure.

“You ought to know what they’re saying instead of walking into this blind,” he replies as calmly as he can, because they aren’t sixteen anymore and this isn’t a classroom rumour Sirius can brush off with a joke and a laugh. “You should know what’s waiting for you at Hogwarts.”

Sirius looks supremely unconcerned—emphasis on _looks_ —as he sits on the living room couch in front of the large windows, putting on his shiny black dress shoes and staring critically at two differently coloured coats levitating in front of him.

“What's done is done,” he says offhandedly, getting up and regarding both coats with crossed arms, the morning sunlight glowing off the edges of his dark hair and highlighting his striking gray eyes. “The burgundy might be a bit much, but the gray one is rather dreary.”

“We both know you're going to go with burgundy, don’t change the subject.”

“Honestly, Remus, I thought you’d be glad.” Sirius does not look at him as he swipes the dark burgundy coat out of the air and tries it on. “You’ll finally have the place to yourself.”

“It’s your penthouse,” Remus points out.

“Our penthouse.”

Sirius conjures a full-length mirror without a frame to hover in front of him as he straightens the coat over his black clothes, and Remus observes.

He fills them much better than he did several months ago. It helps that he has taken to a routine of exercise; though London is a poor location for Quidditch with its muggle skyscrapers, Sirius seems happy enough to go on a morning jog and enjoy the city. He just looks more… more present, more alive. Almost like he used to during their Hogwarts days, but the gleam in his eyes has been—tempered, not dimmed.

“Besides which,” Sirius continues when Remus doesn’t reply, “now you can invite _Nymphadora_ without the fear of me meddling.”

Remus snaps back to attention at the mention of the name and shifts uneasily in his armchair. “You’re changing the subject again, and you know she doesn’t like being called that.”

“She’s not even around,” Sirius cuts him off, and despite Remus’ determination not to be side-tracked, he ends up side-tracked. “For now, in any case.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do I really need to answer that?” Sirius turns to him, vanishing the mirror and putting the gray coat away, seeming to have decided on the burgundy as expected. Remus is almost surprised it doesn’t have golden buttons or something equally ostentatious, but then again, Sirius’ taste is _extravagant_ , not _tacky_.

“You’re right,” Remus decides. “I’d rather you not.”

“I’m going to answer anyway,” Sirius responds cheerfully, sitting down at the left side of the couch next to Remus’ armchair. “She’s obviously crazy about you, so why are you sitting here twiddling your thumbs like a teenager?”

“I’m not—” The sentence falls from his lips when Sirius looks at him. “It’s… it’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?”

Remus is silent, wanting for words as he averts his eyes to the windows. It doesn’t help when he can still see Sirius staring at him from his peripheral vision.

There is a sigh, and he catches movement, a moment later Sirius’ hand on his shoulder.

“I just want you to be happy, Remus,” he says, and Remus wonders at the sudden realization that Sirius hasn’t called him Moony for a while now. “And if she makes you happy, why hesitate?”

Remus finds the courage to meet Sirius’ gaze, but not much more than that.

He could say many things, he could give many justifications, he could even dare to pretend that it’s better this way for everyone involved, but instead what tumbles out of his mouth is, “I don’t know.”

Sirius looks at him for a moment longer and Remus thinks he is on the verge of saying something when his lips bend into a smile instead, and he just pats Remus’ shoulder before letting go.

“You’ll figure it out,” he says as he walks toward where he stationed his trunk next to the fireplace, fidgeting with his cufflinks and not looking at Remus. “I should get going.”

Remus stands up to see him off. “Give Harry my love when you see him, would you? And please, try to be responsible. For my sake.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Sirius pauses, kneeling down beside his trunk and opening it up. “I forgot to give this to Harry during Christmas, couldn’t really find a good time with so many people around and then it just slipped my mind—”

“Another present?” Remus remarks with raised brows, teasing. “As if a custom-fitted wardrobe wasn’t enough?”

“It wasn’t _that_ expensive—”

“I had to talk you out of buying him a golden cauldron. Encrusted with gemstones _._ ”

“The point is,” Sirius interrupts loudly as he pulls out a mirror, “considering the fact that I’ll be seeing Harry nearly every day soon, there’s not much use in giving him this when I own the other half, so I figured you should have mine.”

He holds it out to Remus, who finds himself speechless when he realizes what the handheld mirror really is.

“Is that…” He clears his throat, taking the mirror from Sirius with care, holding it by its edges and making sure his fingers don’t end up leaving marks on its surface. “Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sirius replies, sounding almost unconcerned about it even though he and James spent weeks trying to figure out how to spell the two-way mirror, using it for years after that, up until James passed away. “Easier than writing letters.”

Remus turns the mirror around, absently sliding his thumb over the elegant engraving of _Padfoot_ on the bottom, faded with time.

“Thank you,” he says, for lack of anything else to say, and when he looks at Sirius he finds him avoiding eye-contact. Remus would _almost_ call it bashful, if Sirius was capable of it. “I’ll take good care of it.”

“It’s just a mirror,” Sirius mutters as he closes his trunk, locking it with two easy clicks and straightening up again. “Well then, time for me to head out.”

Remus smiles as he watches Sirius pull his trunk upright, grabbing a fistful of Floo Powder by the fireplace. “I suppose I’ll talk to you soon enough.”

Sirius grins back and winks. “Don’t have _too_ much fun without me.”

He steps up to the fireplace, casually tosses in the powder, waits for the flames to glitter emerald green and rise up to his knees before taking another step right into the fire and saying— _ordering_ , “The Three Broomsticks Inn.”

The flames roar and he’s gone.

* * *

“I’d love to drag him into a broom closet,” Amanda sighs wistfully beside Cedric during breakfast, and Cedric nearly chokes on his tea. “Are you alright?”

“I’m sorry,” Cedric says, coughing a bit before wiping the spilled tea off his mouth and chin with a napkin that Wally hands him across the Hufflepuff table. “Drag who into a broom closet?”

“Gaunt, of course!” Amanda gives him an exasperated look, motioning with her head toward the man in question who had just been walking toward the staff table and is now taking a seat. “Honestly, Cedric, you have eyes, don’t you?”

He has eyes, yes, but he also has standards. One of those standards being—leaving aside the fact that Harry is the best thing in his life right now—that he generally tries not to hook up with _Voldemort_. He almost wonders how Amanda would react if he told her this, but then remembers how Harry reacted and almost winces.

“C’mon Amanda,” Wally chimes in humorously. “You know Cedric is too busy playing footsie with Harry to care about things like that.”

Cedric colours slightly, remembering his entirely unproductive trip to the Hogwarts Library the other day. “When did you start spying on us, Randall?”

“It was hardly spying.” Wally grins. “You weren’t exactly being subtle.”

“But you agree with me, right?” Amanda says to him, still staring at Riddle who is entirely oblivious, conversing politely with Professor Sinistra. “Just _look_ at those _cheekbones_.”

“I’m not getting into this,” Cedric responds plainly, taking a sip from his tea. “Besides, Harry is prettier.”

Amanda arches her brows at him.

“He is!” Cedric insists, throwing a derisive glance toward Riddle’s pale face. “Unless you’re a fan of white paint, I suppose.”

“Cedric!”

Wally high-fives him across the table and Cedric finishes his tea, deciding he has had his fill of breakfast and reaching for that morning’s edition of the Daily Prophet until he recalls the article that came out just a few days ago and changes his mind.

He didn’t think Skeeter could possibly reach a new low, and yet here they are.

“Nothing worth reading in there, anyway,” Amanda says when she notices his aborted movement. “It’s all more nonsense about Black.”

“I’m not so sure if it’s _all_ nonsense,” Wally starts, pausing uncomfortably when both Amanda and Cedric give him a look. “I mean, I’m sure most of it was exaggerated, but it does seem a little soon for someone who spent years in Azkaban to be put in front of a classroom not a year after his release.”  

“Don’t you think the Headmaster would have already made sure of his mental health before hiring him?” Amanda points out.

Wally snorts. “He hired Moody, didn’t he?”

At that point Cedric checks out of the conversation, trying not to cringe.

“Moody wasn’t crazy,” Amanda replies and Cedric stares firmly into his empty teacup. “A bit paranoid, maybe, but his lessons were actually useful.”

“Lockhart?” Wally challenges. “Quirrell?”

“A fraud and a nervous wreck, but neither of them were unstable!”

To Cedric’s great relief it is at that point that Harry walks into the Great Hall, catching his eyes across the room not three steps into it and Cedric hurriedly moves to greet him.

“Leaving already?” he hears Wally tease from behind him, but pays no mind to it as he rises from his seat and walks toward his boyfriend.

Harry meets him halfway, smiling at him but something weighs it down, prevents his lips from stretching out fully and instead strains them tight. Cedric presses a quick kiss to Harry’s cheek—very aware of their audience—and murmurs a good morning, when suddenly a sharp pain shoots through his left hand.

“ _Ouch_.” Cedric looks down at his fingertips, feeling as if someone had just stabbed him in each one with a large needle, but can’t see any marks anywhere.

“What’s wrong?”

It’s intuition, or maybe something more deliberate, that has Cedric turning toward the staff table where he meets Riddle’s dark gaze fixed on him, the lower half of his face hidden behind his mug.

“Nothing.” Cedric looks away to Harry, too uncertain about his suspicions to make him worry unnecessarily, not when he’s already so on edge. “Just some cramps; guess I must have been studying too hard.”

Harry looks skeptical but doesn’t voice it, being that the excuse is plausible enough. “Can’t have our Hogwarts Champion lose to cramps.”

“I’ll try to be more careful.” Cedric manages a smile. “So, which table?”

He feels slightly guilty about not confiding in Harry immediately, but it could have just been a fluke. Besides, if it starts happening regularly he can just go straight to Dumbledore, but he doesn’t want to cause alarm just because his hand hurt for half a second. If need be, he can just ask Riddle himself.

“Mine?” Harry suggests, since the Gryffindor table seems less crowded than the Hufflepuff one.

On a Saturday most students are still sleeping in, but for some reason most Hufflepuffs are early risers. The Ravenclaw table is the most empty out of all four since their students are more likely to be night owls. Cedric wonders which one Harry is while they walk to the Gryffindor table together and take a seat across the Weasley twins.

“Morning, Cedric,” George (or Fred—he still isn’t able to tell them apart) says with a grin. “When are you moving into the dorms?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Fred,” Harry groans, but Fred (apparently) just merrily continues on.

“Since you sit at our table every other day anyway, we figured you might as well just move in.”

“Or is that too soon?” George adds. “Have you even been on a date yet?”

“Was it romantic?”

“Did Harry give you flowers?”

“Or recite you a poem?”

“We need details.”

“I changed my mind!” Harry decides loudly, over the sound of Cedric’s laughter. “We’re sitting at the Hufflepuff table—”

It’s at that moment that his fingers start hurting for a second time and Cedric’s laugh turns into a pained grin, luckily gone unnoticed by Harry who is distracted by the playful banter with the twins. It wasn’t as bad as the first stab, but it’s still sudden enough for it to be irritating.

“…know when he’s gonna arrive?”

He forces himself not to look back toward the staff table where Riddle sits, simmering and yet cold, like the build-up to a snowstorm, and turns his attention back to Harry who looks slightly unsure.

“I don’t know,” he says to the twins. “I haven’t heard from him yet; he probably planned on surprising me.”

“Sirius?” Cedric infers, and Harry nods.

“I figure he’ll probably arrive sooner rather than later, since we’ve already missed quite a few DADA lessons.”

“Yeah, lots of catchup.” Cedric almost winces when he thinks about the homework. The last few lessons have been erratic if they were substituted at all, and when they were substituted it was always by a different Professor, which isn’t exactly great consistency when none of them are looking at the lesson plan and making it up as they go along—save for McGonagall.

“Please don’t talk about catching up,” Fred says.

“As if you’re going to do any of it,” George replies, earning a mock-offended look from his twin, Fred’s hand pressing on his chest, fingers splayed out.

“I’ll have you know I haven’t handed in a single essay past the deadline this year!”

“That’s because you haven’t handed in any.”

Harry snickers and Cedric hides his grin behind a glass of orange juice, though it fades quickly when the fingers he is holding the glass with start to… not sting, but tingle. It isn’t painful, but it’s annoying enough that he’s starting to become frustrated.

He glances toward the staff table once, surprised when he sees Riddle has left his seat vacant, and when he turns his head to look around he catches him striding through the doors of the Great Hall, his long black robe billowing behind him as he disappears out of sight.

Cedric is going to have to have a little chat with Riddle.

* * *

“Gaunt,” Cedric tries not to snap, all but shoving his palm into Riddle’s face during lunch later that day. “What is this?”

Riddle stares at it, then looks at Cedric. “A hand.”

For a moment Cedric is so dumbstruck that he just ends up standing there, arm hanging in the air until Riddle pointedly pushes his wrist aside. They’re in the same decrepit corridor they met last time, though this wall doesn’t have any eavesdropping paintings, just a lone suit of armor hiding them from sight.

“You know what I mean,” Cedric says, lowering it and glaring at Riddle. “The curse.”

Riddle raises his brows the slightest bit, just to the point where they curve. “That was entirely your own doing.”

“I’m sorry?”

“When you picked up my diary I was in a _state_ , shall we say,” Riddle explains. “I wasn’t very partial to any disturbances at the time.”

“So you cursed me?” Cedric says incredulously. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. Undo it.”

Riddle stares at him for a moment before wordlessly holding out his own hand, though he appears a bit stiff while doing so. Cedric eyes it with some suspicion, not entirely sure about whether it’s a good idea to trust Voldemort on this, but even putting the restrictions of his Unbreakable Vow aside, it would be incredibly stupid of Riddle to harm Cedric at this point.

So, Cedric reaches out and reluctantly rests his fingers on top of Riddle’s cold palm, moments later feeling something cool slide over his skin like water.

“What are you doing?” Cedric asks, partly out of wariness and partly out of curiosity.

“I’m undoing the curse, as you asked,” Riddle answers vaguely.

At that moment Cedric feels an odd pull through his arm. It’s not so much a tug as it is something being slowly reeled in, slightly uncomfortable but not particularly awful or alarming in any other way. After a few uneasy, silent seconds pass, Riddle makes a humming noise.

Cedric does not like the sound of it. “What is it?”

There’s a small crease between Riddle’s brows. “This may take a while.” He tilts his head the slightest bit, gaze fixated on their hands as he wraps his fingers around Cedric’s who tries very hard not to pull away or grimace.

“I’m not going to spend an entire afternoon holding hands with you, _Gaunt_ ,” Cedric warns moodily, turning his gaze toward the windows. A bug flies inside, looking like a beetle of some sort, landing on the windowsill and sitting still on the edge.

Riddle’s mouth thins. “I am not going slow because I want to, trust me; this type of magic was much easier to perform when I was still incorporeal.”

Cedric isn’t even going to bother asking about that one. “Just get on with it.”

He glances up at Cedric briefly before looking back down at their hands. The pulling continues.

“You’re rather fond of ordering me around, aren’t you?”

“Someone ought to.”

Riddle clenches his jaw, then takes a deep breath through his nose. “Is there a point to antagonizing me when I’m helping you?”

Cedric considers it. “Personal enjoyment? General loathing? Because you deserve it?”

“For someone who knows who I am, you’re being awfully cavalier about it,” Riddle says slowly, his tone not quite malicious enough to be a threat but rather a subtle reminder, and Cedric isn't stupid enough to dismiss it.

Even as restrained as Riddle is by the Unbreakable Vow, that doesn't mean he's completely harmless. Still, Cedric isn't above being vindictive where Harry is concerned, not after what Riddle put him through; it's not hard to see why Riddle brings out the worst in him. 

“This whole process would be a lot more comfortable for both of us if you just stopped talking.”

Or the pettiest in him, really.

Besides, Cedric figures that if he just keeps irritating Riddle, it’ll be that much easier to prevent whatever manipulating he might have otherwise attempted: if there’s one thing he learned from all that Harry told him about Riddle, it’s that he is arrogant to the point of his own detriment. Wounding his pride seems like the safest way to keep him from slipping into a persona.

That, and Cedric just really enjoys pissing him off. Maybe a little bit too much, but it’s not as if he doesn’t have it coming.

Riddle narrows his eyes in thinly-veiled anger and Cedric considers that a victory that proves his tactic right, unable to suppress a self-satisfied smile. A long silence passes between them, during which Riddle seems to manage regaining some of his composure.

“There’s no need to be so discourteous.”

“You know what’s discourteous?” Cedric says, starting to really enjoy this whole take-the-piss-out-of-Voldemort thing as Riddle narrows his eyes. “No, go ahead, I want you to guess, see if you can figure it out.”

Riddle’s long, spindly fingers squeeze uncomfortably around Cedric’s hand. “Careful, Diggory.”

“Hey, you’re the one who cursed me.”

“Not intentionally.” Riddle dark eyes simmer as he averts his gaze toward the window. “It was a reflex. Besides which, you can hardly call this a real curse.”

“Then what would you call it?”

Riddle pauses for a moment. “The unintended side-effects of magical residue.”

“Do you—” Cedric actually blanks on words for a moment. “Do you enjoy being this utterly insufferable?”

Riddle’s fiery glare returns to his face, and Cedric returns the all but crushing grip around his palm with equal force as he meets the glare head-on.

“You’re the one constantly trying to bicker with me, so if anyone is insufferable—”

“Who’s bickering? I’m not bickering.”

“You’ve done nothing but insult me this entire time when all I’ve done is—”

“Should I be feeling sorry for you instead, is that it?”

“That is not what I meant, stop twisting my words and _stop interrupting me_!”

“Oh, poor Gaunt, surely you’re the real victim—”

Someone coughs.

Cedric does not think he has ever flung himself away from anyone as quickly as he does from Riddle then, his back hitting the wall while Riddle nearly trips backwards over the suit of armor he was standing beside. A comical sight, one he would have taken pleasure in hanging over Riddle’s head had he not also nearly jumped out of his own skin.

Thankfully—or not, it remains to be seen—the person that interrupted them is Hermione, clutching an Arithmancy textbook to her chest as her eyes shift from Cedric back to Riddle, back to Cedric again.

“What were you…?” She trails off uncertainly, her question mostly aimed at Cedric.

“It was magic-related,” Cedric says quickly because there is no way he is having any sort of misunderstanding happen here, not about _this_. “I’ll explain it to you later.”

“Either way, you should keep your voices down.” Hermione’s furtive, nervous glances toward Riddle do not go unnoticed, but Riddle doesn’t so much as blink at her; he’s staring off to the side as if Hermione isn’t even present. “I could hear you bickering all the way from the main corridor.”

It could be that he is genuinely disinterested in whatever she has to say, but seeing as how it’s obvious Riddle wants to slither his way back into Harry’s good graces it would be counterproductive to ignore his friends. Maybe he’s avoiding looking at her deliberately, aware of her discomfort and not wanting to scare her off? Or maybe Cedric is giving Riddle too much credit.

“Cedric?”

He almost startles again, not having realized Hermione was expecting a response, turning away from staring (glaring) at Riddle’s profile. “Oh, er, yes. Thank you. For the warning, I mean.”

“What did I tell you?” Riddle says to Cedric unexpectedly, a hint of smugness in his smooth tone though he is still not looking at anyone, his gaze fixated on the window. “Bickering, as I said.”

“You’re the one who started raising your voice,” Cedric points out irritably.

Riddle actually _scowls_ and opens his mouth, interrupted when Hermione coughs again.

“Is this really the time?”

It takes a moment for Cedric to understand what she’s getting at: they’re in the middle of lunch, and someone else is bound to overhear them if they keep at it.

“No, you’re right.” Cedric sweeps a hand through his hair, satisfied when his stubborn locks fall right back into place. “I’m supposed to meet up with Harry, anyway.”

He glances toward Riddle, almost disappointed when he doesn’t receive a reaction, the shadow of a frown still faint along Riddle’s browline but nothing more than that.

“Then we’ll have to finish this another time,” Riddle responds coolly.

Cedric feels his irritation grow, though he can’t exactly pinpoint why and he resists the urge to shoulder-check Riddle as he passes by him without another word, following Hermione out the corridor.

“What was that about?” Hermione whispers when they’re a safe distance away, although now surrounded by other students either loitering in the hallways or on their way to the Great Hall, some heading outside to catch some sunshine and whatever remains of the snow.

Cedric laments the cloudless weather as a missed opportunity; it would’ve made for some great Quidditch. There’s nothing better than soaring through an endlessly blue sky.

“He cursed my hand,” Cedric answers at length as he holds up his now faintly tingling fingers, relieved it isn’t painful at least. “I was having him undo it.”

Hermione’s eyes widen. “When did he—”

“It was back when he was still stuck with that diary.” Or bound to the diary? Cedric isn’t entirely clear on the details. “I picked it up and ended up cursed.”

“Is it bad?” Hermione looks worried, and thoughtful. Likely already trying to think of ways to undo the curse without Riddle’s help.

Cedric pauses, considering her question. “It’s annoying more than anything else. Maybe a little bit helpful, even.”

“Helpful?”

“My fingers sting whenever Riddle seems to be agitated, so I figure it’s a good way to gauge where his mind’s at—not good enough to be worth the distraction, mind you, I still want to be rid of it.”  

“That doesn’t sound like a regular curse,” Hermione says slowly. “Actually, that doesn’t sound like a curse at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, curses usually have a deliberate negative effect, solely on their target.” They come to a halt near the open doors of the Library, a few students milling about but it’s mostly empty around this time of day. “This doesn’t sound deliberate, and the effect puts him at a greater disadvantage than it does you. I’d say that if you can tell what he is feeling then it seems more like a mishap.”

“He did claim it was unintentional,” Cedric says, pensive. “But he didn’t say exactly what it was, either.”

“Cedric.” Hermione sounds hesitant, and Cedric suddenly starts to grow a rather foreboding feeling in his stomach. “I think… I think the magic in your hand isn’t just a curse or even a jinx, I think… when you picked it up and he lashed out at you, I think he may have accidentally left you branded.”

Oh.

Oh, bloody _hell_.

“You mean a magical brand,” Cedric surmises with sinking dread. “You mean like—”

“The Dark Mark.”

He remembers seeing those in moving pictures. He remembers reading that an inactive mark is often a vivid red. He remembers after he picked up the diary the way his fingers looked, like they’d been burnt, _red_. He’d thought it was just an effect of the curse, to literally burn him.

Now that he looks at his fingertips again—all five of them, on his left hand—they do appear more red than he thinks they ought to be, but his fingertips have _always_ been a faint red, that’s supposed to be normal for Merlin’s sake! Besides which, if this is really like the Dark Mark, then—

“Oh, no.” Cedric looks at his fingers in horror. “No, no no no!”

Because the Dark Mark is permanent.

“I’m sure it’s not exactly like the Dark Mark,” Hermione says quickly, trying to set him at ease. “I mean, it wasn’t done with intent, and intent is what really matters, so there has to be a way to remove it.”

“There had better be!” Cedric exclaims, drawing some looks from other students in the Library and in the corridor. “I am _not_ going to—no! I’ll cut them off if I have to!”

“Cedric, it won’t come to that, just—”

“Don’t tell Harry.”

Hermione’s lips are left hanging open in the midst of her sentence, and she looks bewildered. “Cedric—”

“I don’t want…” Cedric takes a deep breath to steady himself, shaking his head. How is he supposed to explain this to Harry? He’s marked, he’s _branded_ by _Voldemort_. “I'll go to Dumbledore if I have to, just don't tell Harry. He's had enough to worry about.”

How could Harry ever stand touching him if he found out?

“He’ll understand,” Hermione reassures him. “Really, Cedric, he wouldn’t blame you, how could he? It’s all- it’s _Gaunt_ ’s fault this happened, not yours. You didn’t get branded willingly. We’ll figure this out, okay?”

Cedric looks down at his fingers.

How could he ever touch Harry again with this hand?

* * *

After promising Cedric that she’d keep it quiet, at least for now, Hermione strides into the Library with purpose, and this time she only does a single double-take when she catches Malfoy sitting at her usual spot by the windows for the second time that schoolyear.

She takes a deep breath and says nothing as she approaches the table, settling her bag down and taking a seat across from Malfoy who is pouring over a thick book. He does not look up at her, nor acknowledge her presence in any other way.

“Is that _A Compressed History of Muggle Science_?” she ventures when she catches a diagram of an airplane on one of the pages Malfoy is studying, next to it a moving picture of one taking off into the sky.

“Muggle technology is so ludicrously complicated,” Malfoy sneers in response, but keeps reading, his attention glued to the pages. Outside the wind no doubt blows cold, but they don’t notice it due to the Warming Charms placed all around Hogwarts.

“Perhaps to you,” Hermione responds neutrally, trying not to be hopeful.

Malfoy doesn’t say anything more and she thinks it best to leave him be, getting up and setting out to look for some books herself in order to study up on some more advanced material for her Ancient Runes and Arithmancy classes, not to mention see if she can’t find anything that explains more about magical brands and how to remove one.

When she returns with her arms full of books, however, Malfoy looks up at her for the first time.

“Do you have a phone?”

Hermione nearly drops all of her books. “Um—not on me, no, but my parents do.”

“And it works just like the Floo?”

“To a point,” Hermione says cautiously. “You don’t have to stick your head into a fireplace, for one. It’s more like the muggle version of a magic two-way mirror, though it’s more, er, versatile.”

“And more complicated,” Malfoy scoffs, closing the book. “That’s all I’m getting from this rubbish.”

“Giving up so soon?” Hermione responds innocently as she opens up her own book, giving Cedric’s dilemma priority as she thumbs through the pages of _Magic Marks and Their Effects on the Human Body._

She does not see so much as hear Malfoy grumble and slap the book open again, but her attention is diverted to the reading material in front of her.

Minutes pass as she reads on the inner workings of magic brands—the Dark Mark being an example recited often—but finds little about how to remove one save for death or the owner of the mark itself willingly removing it. Any interference from a third party can have catastrophic results in aggravating the mark and, in cases of a cursed mark, make things even worse. It seems like Cedric has no other choice but have Riddle undo the mark for him.

She’s almost surprised at how good Malfoy is being with all this, even though he seems derisive of whatever he reads about muggle technology. He does not ask her any further questions but aside from the sneer on his face doesn’t make any more derogatory remarks either, so Hermione considers that a good sign.

It’s rather shocking he hasn’t moved to another table yet, to be honest.

“What are you reading?”

Surprised, both by the question itself and the fact that she’s being addressed _almost_ civilly, she looks up from her book. “Just some theory on magical brands.”

Malfoy doesn’t exactly look curious, but he is staring down at the pages of her book as if he can glare it into giving away all its secrets. “Like the Dark Mark?”

“As an example, yes.” Hermione watches Malfoy read the page upside down for a moment, bemused by the development. “Would you like to read it?”

Malfoy’s gaze snaps up at her face. “What?”

“Would you like to read it?” Hermione repeats her offer evenly.

Malfoy continues to stare at her as if she’s grown a second head. “No.”

“Suit yourself.”

She goes back to her book, and the silence settles once again, until Malfoy asks, “What’s up with you and Potter?”

That’s not a question she could have seen coming, and when she looks up at Malfoy now she notices he actually does look halfway curious. “I’m sorry?”

“You and Potter.” Malfoy pauses, adding, “And Weasley. Having a row, are we?”

“We’re not having a row,” Hermione responds irritably.

“Potter and Weasley, then.”

She really can't have a single conversation with Malfoy where he's not prodding at her, can she? Obnoxious prig. 

“That’s none of your business.”

Malfoy leans back into his seat, arm hanging off the backrest as if he owns the entire table and the Library that’s housing it—it’s really aggravating. “Did I hit a nerve there, Granger?”

“Why do you care?” Hermione retorts snippily. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”  

Malfoy doesn’t answer that, eyes drifting through the Library, passing over various students and Hermione figures the conversation has been dropped, so she returns to her reading. The silence isn’t comfortable nor uneasy—it feels manufactured, forced, like a thin pane of glass that can burst again at any second.

Moments later, it does.

“What do you know about Gaunt?”

She tenses, but keeps her eyes on the book, even if they can’t seem to read any of the words anymore. “Very little. Why?”

“He’s carrying a torch for Potter,” Malfoy says nonchalantly and Hermione’s mouth goes slack in shock, staring up at Malfoy blankly. “And I’m not sure that anyone that’s carrying a torch for _Potter_ is someone I want to associate myself with, so I’m asking you: what do you know about Gaunt?”

“Just that he’s the teaching assistant during Potions class,” Hermione says carefully. “I’ve never really spoken to him before.”

Either that was the wrong thing to say or Malfoy was already suspicious, because he narrows his eyes at her. “Really? Not even once?”

Hermione remains silent for a moment to think. Lying outright would be too bold, but she doesn’t know how much Malfoy knows, how much Gaunt—Riddle, has told him.

“He’s not fond of muggles, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she deflects instead.

Malfoy makes a vague waving motion with his hand, as that’s apparently not what he was worried about, then says, “It’s just incomprehensible to me, what someone like Gaunt could possibly see in Potter.”

Hermione snorts. “I can imagine,” she mutters as she returns to her book, satisfied that it was apparently Malfoy’s ego that was hurt, nothing more.

Though that raises some concerning questions, and she’s not sure letting Malfoy be manipulated by Riddle is going to be good for anyone in the long run, though he doesn’t seem like he’s being manipulated. To Malfoy’s credit, it seems more like he’s just fishing for information before making up his mind.

“You shouldn’t let him get too close to you,” she says, and she can’t believe she is actually warning Malfoy like this but not warning him just seems wrong. “He is very good at manipulating people.”

“I know that,” Malfoy snaps. “I’m not daft, I can see what he’s doing; this isn’t exactly new to me, Granger.”

“You’re just going to ignore me, aren’t you?” At Malfoy’s lack of a reply, Hermione says, “Whatever benefit you think you’re going to get out of this, trust me when I say that _you cannot outsmart Gaunt_. If you think that you’re onto him, it’s because he wants you to think that.”

“Oh, please.” Malfoy looks entirely dismissive and even annoyed as he shuts his book. “What would you know? I thought you said you knew ‘very little’ about Gaunt just a moment ago?”

Hermione stiffens, and Malfoy sneers.

“Thought so.” He grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and with a flick of his wand the book on muggle science levitates back to where he got it from. “I’d say see you later, but I really hope I don’t.”

With those last parting words, Malfoy saunters off toward the exit, and Hermione worries her lower lip with her teeth as she stares after him, conflicted.

She never thought she would ever consider doing this, but there's no other option:

Malfoy needs an intervention, before it's too late.


	36. Chapter 36

_“…best, Black is an unstable man without the lucidity to judge how certain relations might be perceived by the general public. At worst, one might have to question whether there isn’t more to this tawdry affair than meets the eye._

_Perhaps more importantly, the recent staff appointment of Black at Hogwarts seems to indicate a trend in Dumbledore’s way of hiring. Just two years ago the illustrious Headmaster of wizarding Britain’s academic crown jewel took on the fraud Gilderoy Lockhart, only a scant a year before Lupin. The current schoolyear has been especially hectic in terms of hires, and not only because of Alastor Moody’s widely reported admission to St. Mungo’s._

_Aside from Black’s questionable hiring, a fresh new face has been added to Hogwarts’ staff as an assistant to Potions classes, headed by the notorious Severus Snape whose harsh teaching methods have been in question for years._

_Unfortunately almost nothing is known about the young man registered in the books as Thomas Gaunt, save that he prefers to go by Tom. No records of him exist within the Ministry of Magic, and rumour has it that he originates from Germany. One has to wonder why Dumbledore thinks it prudent to hire a foreigner. It is yet another odd decision in a string of increasingly perplexing choices made by—”_

Peter pauses, staring at the crumpled page of a newspaper in his hand, eyes lingering on a single name.

The dimness inside the abandoned home made it difficult to read, but he found a quiet moment to himself after his master commanded him to leave him to his thoughts. Relocating them required time and energy; finding a suitable house located far enough away from the traffic of muggles would have been stressful enough on its own, without the added temperament of his master to deal with.

But as Peter stares at the ink faded in the newspaper, he thinks it is a good thing they did because his master’s suspicions are bearing out to be true. It was the reason they relocated in the first place, a precaution Peter thought to be paranoia at the time, ascribing it to the Dark Lord’s foul mood but knowing better than to try and dissuade him.

As it turns out, Barty has likely been captured if not killed, and Tom—whoever he is—has probably betrayed them. Voldemort has been silent ever since Peter read the article to him, which is perhaps the most worrying of all.

Peter glances periodically toward the stairs leading up to the bedrooms and the study where Voldemort rests. They are not far from Little Hangleton, traces of the muggle family that lived on this farm still fresh as if they had left only moments ago. The dining table is served with soup that has long grown cold, the television flashing with colorful images though Peter turned its sound off, Nagini slithering by a feeding bowl meant for a cat left only half-full.

He would think the horrible nausea would have faded after a few hours yet it still persists. Peter has done far worse than this, but the thought does not ease the knot in the pit of his stomach.

Glancing down at the newspaper in his hand, he counts his blessings that the only one with magic in the family had been the mother. He isn’t sure whether he could have overpowered an entire family ( _like the Potters_ ), though he supposes the child wouldn’t have been much of a problem.

She died first, anyway.

He wonders if she might have been magical like her mother, might have grown up to go to Hogwarts had he not chosen her home ( _why them, why his friends, why, why, why)_.

The mother was the family’s only real defense, but when Peter found them dining together she had left her wand on the kitchen counter ( _Oh, James)_ , complacent in her happy life. She grabbed a knife after Peter quickly took care of her daughter and then her husband, gaze flitting to her wand on the other side of the room yet did not move toward it, and when he looked the woman in the eyes he could see that she knew it too.

She would die there in that kitchen, alone.

Peter locked the door afterwards, even though he left nothing of their bodies to be found. He found the newspaper later, on the counter next to the mother’s wand. Might not have looked twice had Sirius’ name not caught his attention.

A teacher at Hogwarts, a career that suited Remus quite well but not one Peter had ever imagined seeing Sirius in, not when they were kids. The horrors he endured in Azkaban could have either tempered or inflamed his inclination towards the wild and the reckless ( _“YOU WANTED THEM DEAD!”),_ and considering Dumbledore sought it fit to appoint him that must mean therapy has done Sirius good.

It will make infiltrating Hogwarts all the less likely, however.

Assuming they were betrayed, the plan that was set up to use the cup as a portkey was likely found out and corrected, meaning they’ll have to think of another way without the help of someone inside to facilitate things. Not to mention that with Sirius now at the school to add to Harry’s protection, the quest for his blood must be delayed.

(Peter tried suggesting they use another person’s blood once before, but the result of that conversation still stings in the tapestry of bruises woven across his back; Voldemort may be at his weakest, but even then he is still a wizard of considerable power.)

Thumbing the Daily Prophet article, Peter quietly reads it for a fourth time, something to distract him until his master calls for him as he considers their predicament. Something has to give, they can’t live as fugitives forever— _Peter_ can’t live as a fugitive forever, not like this.

His eyes trail the lines, pensive.

They settle on a name.

* * *

The youngest Weasley slips past him into the Potions classroom as if she were afraid he might snap at her heels like a wild dog scenting her fear, and Tom lingers on the thought with some amusement as he sees her exhale once she reaches her desk and realizes she was holding her breath the entire time.

“Good morning, Tom,” another student says as she follows Weasley inside, sounding hopeful.

Tom spares the girl a smile and as she joins her friend near the front row she looks all aflutter. Ginevra Weasley is decidedly the exception among her peers; it is almost too easy to charm them when Snape looms behind him in the background and they cling to every shred of kindness they can find, particularly from Tom.

He does not imagine his good looks a curse like many others might have, would not think about bemoaning the attention when it is so useful in creating a space for him at Hogwarts and only what he deserves. He has become a permanent fixture, as it should be.

But Ginny Weasley knows, perhaps, what he is and she is not so easily fooled.

Evidently she doesn’t know the details—Dumbledore likely did not inform her of his true identity or she would not be coming to class at all—but she knows enough to be wary of him. Their last encounter taught her caution.

It feels good to be feared after so long. He almost forgot what it was like. Adoration inspires loyalty, but fear keeps people in line; one must always have equal shares of both.

Weasley might be the first who has come to fear him, but she will not be the last.

Closing the door behind him when the last student has arrived and settled down into their seat, Tom watches as Snape begins his lesson.

He has exchanged very few words with the potions master since their first conversation, and Snape has wisely tried to keep as much distance from him as possible. Unlike Weasley, Snape not only knows exactly what he is but _who_ he is as well, and that does not sit right with Tom.

But all in due time.

He turns to watch Weasley for most of Snape’s (admittedly rather short) lecture. While she seems to be listening Tom can’t quite be sure since her gaze is aimed firmly at her desk, her posture stiff and shrunken as if she is trying to make herself disappear into her chair.

What a silly girl, as if he could harm her in any way.

 _‘That’s not how trauma works, Tom,’_ the Horcrux points out, cold disapproval within its distorted voice, echoing as if through an old radio.

Trauma?

He all but scoffs to himself inside his own mind, making certain his outward expression remains pleasantly polite as Snape drones on in the background, interrogating a nervous Hufflepuff student.

Was killing a few chickens really that upsetting?

Something inside him chills the moment the thought passes through his mind.

 _‘You know what it’s like to have someone slipping through the cracks into your skull,’_ the Horcrux says. _‘You know the feeling of someone trying to pry you open from the inside out.’_

It throbs in the back of his head, a pain he thought he escaped.

_‘Oh, Tom, you never escaped.’_

The Horcrux sounds mocking as Tom feels the blood drain from his face, heartbeat pounding and he had forgotten how _loud_ it could be, how all-consuming the rhythm of his pulse as if drums were beating inside his ears, as if his veins were about to burst.

_‘He will always be there, trying to crack you open like an egg.’_

That horrid feeling is back. The fingers digging into his head burrowing like worms. The disease rotting inside of him like a corpse.

_‘Did you really think you would be free of him just because of your new body?’_

He feels it breathing down his neck, a quiet but horrifyingly familiar chorus slowly starting to grow louder.

_‘You are still part of his soul, as he is still part of yours.’_

(Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.)

_‘I am the only thing keeping you from ruin.’_

Stop.

_‘Not so funny anymore now, is it?’_

Stop stop stop stop stop stop sto

“Gaunt.”

Tom blinks and the world around him comes crashing back into his eyes, as if he forgot that he had a body at all. The sudden tightness around his chest squeezes like a steel trap, making it difficult to breathe. He feels perspiration gather around the heat on the back of his neck and his forehead, Snape’s narrowed eyes swimming in the center of his vision as if detached from his face.

He is safe. He is safe. He is safe.

He clenches his jaw and inhales, painfully aware of his trembling hand gripping around the edge of a desk helping him maintain balance. His knees feel weak. He doesn’t feel safe. What if he _isn’t_ safe?

“Professor,” he says to Snape as calmly as he can manage.

What if Voldemort really is still there somewhere in the darkest corner of his mind?

Watching.

Waiting.

What if.

“Do you need to sit down, Gaunt?” Snape asks, his voice sounding somewhat distant or maybe muffled, as if he were speaking to Tom through a window. Tom is aware of Snape staring at him as he grits his teeth and tries to straighten his posture and look like he as at least a semblance of clarity left in his wide-eyed gaze, but it feels as if the walls are closing in on him. He can’t keep track of his thoughts, jumping too quickly from one to the next like a never-ending avalanche.

“No, I—”

“Hospital Wing,” Snape cuts him off. “ _Now_ , Gaunt.”

Tom doesn’t know how many of the students have noticed as he turns his heel and makes his way over toward where he remembers the door to be. He doesn’t look behind him but they must be looking at him, he can feel them looking at him.

_Watching._

What if he isn’t safe. What if—

Once he’s out in the hallway and the door shuts behind him with a finality, what felt like walls closing in on him in the classroom now feels like a frighteningly huge open space and Tom has no way to sort what he’s feeling, to catalogue it like he usually does because it’s all slipping out of his control so quickly.

He isn’t safe.

_He isn’t safe._

His back hits a wall, maybe, something solid but he can’t breathe and his hands still won’t stop shaking. With every second it’s getting harder and harder to think clearly as if his thoughts are spinning completely out of his control, and it should be over and it is over, it’s over now and he’s safe but he isn’t, what is happening, what is happening, he still can’t breathe, _what is happening_.

 _‘You know exactly what’s happening,’_ the Horcrux says. 

I know, I know now but you need to stop before anyone sees me because if anyone sees me like this, if anyone sees—

The Horcrux sighs, and something inside him eases. _‘Breathe, Tom.’_

He tries.

What feels like an eternity passes inside that hallway as Tom attempts regaining some sort of control over himself, concentrating on his breathing that slowly but surely calms into something less feverish. He can hear the soft chatter of the classroom coming from beyond the door next to him, the sound of students milling about the dungeons that echoes against the stone walls.

Tom doesn’t realize he sat down on the floor during that whole meltdown until he hears footsteps coming up at the other end of the corridor. He can’t tell how much time has passed or how long he has been sitting, but his backside feels numb against the cold tiles and Snape still hasn’t dismissed his class yet so he estimates it’s been somewhere between ten and thirty minutes. His chest aches.  

The footsteps near closer and he manages to get himself upright well enough, though he feels incredibly unsteady on his feet. He only notices the wetness spread across his cheeks until it’s too late and a shadow cast from the flickering torches on the walls falls across him.

He sees the shoes first, those of a student standing several feet away in a distance that seems too cautious for a stranger that has just come across someone in distress, and Tom’s fingers dig into his palms because that is what he is. Distressed. Weak. _Vulnerable._

“Gaunt?”

He feels—it’s so strange, he can’t remember the last time his heartbeat skipped if it ever did, but it flutters once then, a startling gap in the rhythm when he recognizes the voice and his eyes snap up to meet the ones staring at him across the strange distance.

Green.

“Harry,” Tom breathes, and even in a state like this—where he can’t process whatever washes over him then, can’t even begin to describe the collision of _no_ and _yes_ overlapping into something inexplicable—he wonders.

“What…” Harry stares at him in pure disbelief, looking up and down his disheveled state as if he is moments away from pinching himself. “What happened to… aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

“Why are you here?” Tom asks in return, deflecting, thinks his voice sounds hoarse but does not clear his throat. Does not wipe the tearstains from his face.

Harry’s bewilderment lingers but he says nothing, a door left ajar just wide enough for a hand to slip through the gap.

Tom watches Harry’s face, watches and keeps on wondering.

He could use this. He could weaponize this. He could bare his neck as bait, coaxing a closer look with gleaming teeth hidden behind softly spoken words. He might have, once.

But he doesn’t.

“I’m fine,” he says instead, raising his chin slightly. “You can save your pity for another.”

Something flickers in Harry’s eyes then and isn’t he just utterly incomprehensible, standing here across his mortal enemy, across a traitor who has tried to kill him, someone who has lied to him and deceived him, yet there it is. His compassion, stirring in spite of everything.

The world in which Tom could deceive Harry with just a twist of his lips seems to far away, so removed from this reality where Harry looks through Tom’s mask as if it were made of glass. In the end he may have shaped Harry in a way that was wholly unforeseen and unintended, to his own detriment.

“You don’t look fine,” Harry says, wise enough to be wary nonetheless.

“Why are you here, Harry?” Tom repeats himself, impatient now because he doesn’t know why he didn’t use this to his advantage, why he didn’t pluck at Harry’s heartstrings and play it like an instrument as he usually would, like he used to do and it’s frustrating. He feels contained and he feels mute, something invisible holding him tight and unwilling to let him go.

“Professor Dumbledore is looking for you,” Harry responds, shifting slightly on his feet when Tom continues to stare at him, back nearly hitting the wall behind him but eyes not averting from Tom’s, fixated on a threat. “I wasn’t sure whether you would be in class or not.”

“Snape asked me to run an errand for him,” Tom lies casually. “Why, exactly, did Dumbledore ask you to find me?”

“He didn’t mention.” Harry shrugs, stiff. “But I reckon you’re supposed to head up to the Headmaster’s Office after class.”

“What, and you just happened to run into him in the hallway when he told you this?”

“Yes,” Harry says, curt, and does not elaborate.

“Very well,” he concedes in the face of such stubborn silence, holding Harry’s attention for a moment longer and even if it isn’t how it used to be, Tom feels it better to be the focus of his hatred than to be ignored by him. “I’ll not keep you any longer, then.”

The way Harry looks at him has Tom waiting for something more, but nothing comes. Not a word, not a nod. Harry just turns away from him, as if dismissing him as he walks back the way he came.

He follows Harry’s back with his eyes, lingering on his familiar messy head of hair before trailing down to the hem of his robes fluttering after him until he turns the corner and disappears.

The sound of his footsteps fade and the hallway sinks into silence.

After a while Tom returns to the classroom where even the dim noise of conversation and the soft bubbling of cauldrons feels oppressive as he lets it slide over him, not returning Snape’s gaze burning onto the side of his face.

Instead he looks at Ginny Weasley smiling quietly at a blonde Ravenclaw girl sitting beside her, chatting away. He ends up staring at her until their eyes meet and her smile disappears. She quickly looks back down at her desk where her hands squeeze into fists, until her friend touches on her wrist and after a long moment she relaxes again.

Tom's thoughts flash to a memory of fingers brushing across the cover of his diary, so distant that he could almost mistake it for a dream, because now he is alone.

He is alone, and he has no one.

When the lesson ends and it’s time for the students to leave to their next class of the day, Tom stays far out of Weasley’s way.

* * *

“Were you really hanging out with Malfoy again?” Ron says for maybe the third time, and Hermione replies with an exasperated glance but does not otherwise respond as she returns to her book, hunched over the pages and scribbling down notes while her cup of tea waits to be touched at the edge of the Gryffindor table. Ron wonders what the point of it is if she isn’t even going to drink it.

She has told him (albeit reluctantly) about her conversations with Malfoy before, but she’s been oddly tight-lipped about it ever since mentioning she ran into him again the other day at the Library where most of these bizarre meetings always seem to be taking place.

Ron calls it bizarre mostly because what Hermione claims to have witnessed Malfoy doing during these encounters _has_ to be a lie, and although Hermione herself likely wouldn’t lie to him about it, Malfoy certainly could be pretending to have an interest in muggles in an effort to get close to her.

But why would he bother? To trick her? For what purpose?

None of it makes any sense.

As if Hermione can sense the question on his lips she says, “I heard you talked to Harry the other day.”

Ron can see what she’s doing and she’s being blatant about it at that, but that doesn’t mean he’s above taking the bait.

“I did,” he replies with a stiff shrug, looking away from her and staring at his unfinished Charms essay, parchment half-written, blotted with ink he’ll have to clean up later. His penmanship has always been a bit on the messy side.

“What did you two talk about?”

She’s trying so hard to be subtle, it’s almost painful.

“Just told him I thought the Skeeter article about Sirius was bollocks,” Ron replies, tentatively doodling a dog into the corner of his parchment, though the sketch comes away looking more akin to a tiny, disproportionate horse. “That’s all.”

“Mhm.”

Ron pauses in his doodling to frown at her. “What?”

She looks up from her Arithmancy book. “What?”

“You—” Ron cuts himself off with a sigh. “Forget it.”

“What, Ron?”

“It’s just- what do you want me to do, Hermione?” he says, frustrated because he can _hear_ the disapproval in her tone, even though she has otherwise let the topic of talking to Harry drop after it became clear Ron was going to be stubborn about this.

“Talk to him,” Hermione answers matter-of-factly and Ron rolls his eyes.

“Blimey, Hermione, I wonder why I didn’t think of that one before.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at him. “Stop being a prat and _talk to him_.”

“We talked!” At Hermione’s persistent glare, Ron sighs. “I don’t even know what else I’m supposed to say to him.”

“Be honest and tell him how you feel.”

Ron snorts. “That’s what got us into this mess, remember?”

“No, the two of you losing your tempers got you into this mess,” Hermione corrects. “Besides, it was a stressful time for both of you after… in any case, now that you’ve both cooled down I’m sure it’ll go much better.”

That’s a fair point. Learning about Riddle’s true identity probably ranks right below that time he nearly got killed by a giant wizard’s chess piece in terms of how horrifying it was, and if it was that bad for Ron then he can’t even imagine how Harry must have been feeling throughout it all.

It certainly doesn’t make him feel good to know that he just left his best friend hanging in his time of need over a stupid argument that didn’t have to get as heated as it did. It’s just a good thing Harry’s got Cedric in his corner.

“What are you doing, anyway?” Ron inquires, attention drifting to Hermione’s muggle notebook filled from top to bottom with notes that she’s going over, eyes skimming over the lines but pausing at Ron’s question to glance at him.

“Just going over my most recent interviews.”

Ron stares at her. “What interviews?”

“Oh.” Hermione looks genuinely surprised. “I didn’t tell you about my house-elf interviews?”

“Your what now?”

“I’ve been interviewing house-elves for the past week now,” she announces, pointing at her notebook. “I’m making good progress as well, but it will take a while until I’ve gone through them all, not that there’s much variations in their responses—”

“Hermione,” Ron interrupts her, flabbergasted, “ _why_ are you interviewing house-elves?”

“Because, Ron, I’ve thought about how to approach this for a while now and I decided I should start by asking the house-elves themselves about what they think in regards to how they’re being treated,” Hermione rattles off her answer, sounding just a tad bit defensive. “I want to start some sort of advocacy group for them eventually, but Harry once asked me whether I actually knew anything about house-elves, and I realized that I didn’t.”

“So, you’re interviewing them?” Ron states, incredulous.

His first instinct is to tease her about it because really, who would bother interviewing house-elves? Everyone knows they’re perfectly happy helping and as well-intentioned as Hermione is this all seems like one huge waste of time, but then he recalls the way Harry dismissed him and his ideas about wanting to support his family, and the way that hurt him.

“Well?” he prompts when Hermione remains tight-lipped and stiff. “What did you find out?”

Her eyes widen in a surprise so genuine that he almost cringes when he considers what that must say about him. Even if it’s him just humoring her, he doesn’t want to be someone she can’t be honest to because she’s afraid that he’ll just make fun of her.

“Oh, well, of the ten I’ve interviewed so far all ten of them claim they’re thrilled to be able to help and grateful to be working at Hogwarts, but it can’t be that simple,” Hermione elaborates, getting that spark in her eyes that lights up her whole face as she thumbs through the pages. “I mean, they’re dressed in rags and they don’t get _any_ vacation time or sick days, let alone pay! I can’t imagine all of them are content that way, but when I asked them if they could think of any improvements they’d like to see I got the exact same response.”

“Let me guess: I wouldn’t _dream_ of it, mistress?” Ron says wryly, and Hermione lets out a frustrated sigh. “Oh, come on,  you must have seen this coming.”

“It’s still not right,” Hermione insists. “Even if we suppose that they are genuinely happy being that way, it’s all too easy for someone to take advantage of it and yet there are no protections in place for house-elves that might be abused by their-their owners! No laws that might… Ron, are you listening?”

Ron straightens in his seat, startled; he ended up just staring at her and didn’t even realize it. He feels his ears starting to burn as he clears his throat, avoiding Hermione’s slightly irritated look.

“Uh, yeah, absolutely.” When she looks unconvinced, he says, “Why don’t you tell me more about this advocacy thing? I mean, it’s not a bad idea; _someone’s_ got to protect the house-elves.”

The smile Hermione gives him then is more than worth the hour long lecture that follows.

* * *

His fingers are stinging again.

Cedric glances down at the redness that, ever since he has realized it’s there, seems more obvious to him now. It’s not just the flush of blood underneath the fine skin covering the pads of his fingers but something far less natural. If he holds them up to a certain light he can see the thin trails branching from the tips downward, though none quite reach the palm of his hand.

It’s not any particular shape either, not like the Dark Mark which was designed deliberately, though it reminds him of vines crawling up the walls of a house.

Ignoring the sting that travels up and down his mark like a current, Cedric wraps his scarf tighter around his neck as he heads up the stone steps of the Owlery, the wind blowing freely through the glassless windows of the tower. The soft sounds of wings flapping and the occasional hoot draw closer as he reaches the top of the stairs, his letter to his mother tucked into the pocket of his winter robe. 

As always the floor of the Owlery is a mess of feathers and droppings though the owls themselves seem content, flying in and out as freely as they please. Cedric finds Osbert easily enough, preening his wings as he often seems to be doing whenever Cedric visits the Owlery.

If owners really do resemble their pets, he wonders what that says about him that his bird seems to be somewhat of a narcissist. Of course Cedric knows he looks good; his mates envy his muscles and the girls like to look at his face, asking about his fitness routine and sighing about how tall he is. But he doesn’t _preen_ , or he doesn’t think he does. Putting on lip balm and hand lotion isn’t preening, is it? Playing Quidditch isn’t exactly the most forgiving sport.

While pondering whether his habits can be considered vain Cedric is in the midst of carrying Osbert toward the windows when the arrival of another owl—feathers a familiar shade of black that contrasts starkly to the white clouds above—startles him out of his thoughts.

It’s Edwin, his mother’s owl.

Confused, Cedric allows Osbert to hop down his arm onto the windowsill and catches the thick envelope Edwin drops almost exactly on top of his head as the dark owl flies into the Owlery, settling at an empty perch close to the ceiling.

Cedric frowns down at the envelope addressed to him, recognizing his mother’s handwriting. He hasn’t even sent her his response yet; why would she send another one so quickly? Has something happened?

Worried, Cedric quickly rips the envelope open, dumping the contents into his hand and raises his brows when he discovers there are two separate letters inside.

He opens one, glancing at the first few words written in—

That’s written in his father’s hand.

Cedric pales, putting the letter away and quickly opening the other one, which was written by his mother, feverishly skimming the lines for an explanation. She greets him as she always does, explaining that she knows he probably wasn’t expecting this but that his father had wanted to write to him for a while now and felt he was finally ready.

_‘He wanted to try and write to you himself.’_

Feeling the dread settling in his stomach as solidly as a stone, Cedric eyes the folded parchment underneath his mother’s letter cautiously. She has been mostly supportive of him the past few months, but the complete silence on his father’s end in spite of his mother’s reassurances hasn’t gone unnoticed. She hasn’t exactly invited Harry for dinner yet, either, which tells him enough.

As he stares at his father’s letter, putting his mother’s away in his pocket together with his own which he figures he’ll have to adjust, Cedric almost wants to almost throw it out the tower.

But what’s the worst that it could say? Clearly he isn’t being disowned, not that it was ever all that likely, but if his mother saw fit to let his father write to him then some progress must have been made.

Still, that doesn’t do much for the knots in his stomach as he opens his father’s letter again. Best to do it now, and do it quickly. Like ripping off a bandage, right?

He takes a breath and begins to read.

_‘Cedric,_

_I hope you are doing well. Your mother and I were so proud when we heard of your performance in the Tournament so far. I always knew you would do splendidly, so it came as no surprise to me when I heard you placed first._

_But that is not what I wanted to write to you about. I have penned this letter many times over ever since I saw the article in the Daily Prophet. I have thought about what I wanted to say to you for a long time. Your mother offered to help, but I wanted to use my own words to articulate my thoughts._

_This is not what I expected. I admit I was upset at first. People started asking me—’_

Cedric pauses for a moment, averting his gaze to the view through the window. The wind blows cold against his heated skin as he sucks in the air through his mouth, feeling a lump forming in his throat that he has to swallow around before he strangles it all down and returns to the letter, because if he doesn’t finish it now he might not finish it at all.

_‘People started asking me questions and I did not know how to answer them. I was frustrated, and it was easier to be angry with you. It is still difficult to process. Ever since you were a little boy I would think about what kind of future you would have when you grew up into a man and this news flew into the face of everything I wanted for you to have._

_But you are not to blame for that. You are your own person and you are old enough to make your own decisions. Even if I do not understand it I will do my best to support you in whatever you choose to do with your life._

_I should have written to you sooner, and for that I am sorry. I was afraid I would say something that I would come to regret, but that is no excuse. I will try to do better._

_No matter what you are still my son, and I love you with all my heart._

_Always and forever,_

_Dad.’_

He holds the letter in his hands until his fingers become numb from the cold, Osbert hooting softly at him from the ledge of the window as Cedric tries his very best not to sob all over the parchment, furiously wiping the tears and snot off his face.

So, ultimately it’s much better than he expected. He supposes that his mother’s refusal to even mention Harry’s name was a pretty clear indicator of how his father was handling it, and the letter isn’t ideal, but it’s a solid start. It’s something they can build on.

The most important part is that his father is willing to learn, though you’d think the word ‘gay’ was cursed with how both his parents are talking their way around it.

Or maybe they don’t realize that he is?

Cedric has never said it himself, has never written it down, not even to his mother, so how would either of his parents know that he’s gay? They probably think he’s still open to girls; it would explain his father being under the impression that this is some sort of temporary change, something Cedric chose to do.

If so, this hill might be a steeper climb than any of them anticipated.

The sound of footsteps startles Cedric as he hastily stuffs the letter into his pocket with the rest, turning his back to the entrance while trying to wipe his face clean with his sleeve as best he can, hoping whoever comes up will just ignore him or—

“Cedric?”

His eyes go wide as he turns to look over his shoulder.

Oh, this has _got_ to be a joke.

“Hey Cho,” Cedric greets reluctantly, turning back around to face her as she lingers nervously around the stairs, as if afraid to broach his personal space even from so far away.

He has no idea what to say, remembering vividly how their last encounter went and feeling uncomfortable just being around her, partly because of what she said and partly because of how he acted towards her. Should he apologize? Should he wait for _her_ to apologize first?

“Hi,” she says, crossing her arms tightly around her chest. “I’ve, um, I’ve been looking for you.”

“Oh.” Cedric looks around the Owlery, avoiding her gaze. “Did you know I’d be here?”

“Yeah, you’ve made it a habit, so…” She trails off awkwardly, though she’s not wrong. Cedric usually sends his letters at the end of the week, around this time of day. He’s surprised she noticed in the short time they were dating.

“What did you want to talk about?” he offers because this is just starting to inch right into social agony and he’s not sure whether he’s more embarrassed for her or for himself.

“About the Yule Ball,” she says quickly—like ripping off a bandage, he thinks wryly—and approaches him with a few steps, still keeping a very polite distance. “I’ve been thinking about it, and… Cedric, why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry, I just—it’s nothing.” Cedric takes a deep breath, shaking his head. “Ignore me; what about the Yule Ball?”

Cho doesn’t even glance at him as she speaks, looking down at her sleeve as she fiddles with it. “What happened between us, I just didn’t want to end it like… like _that_.”

He remembers the way she walked off and almost winces, all the humour in the absurd coincidence in the situation gone. “Cho, I’m sorry that I—”

“No, it’s fine,” she assures him quickly, looking him in the eyes this time and smiling shakily, but her voice is steady. “I needed to hear it.”

“I still wish I handled it better,” Cedric replies. “I should have pulled you aside or something, not dumped you on the middle of the dance floor.”

Cho sighs, shoulders deflating slightly. “I was asking for it.”

“Well, I’m not about to argue that.”

She blinks at him, startled, then laughs. “You shouldn’t.”

The conversation lulls for a moment as Cedric absently brushes a finger over Osbert’s gray feathers, wondering where they are supposed to go from here. Cho looks as uncertain as he feels, but she makes an effort.

“I just wanted to apologize again for what I said during the Yule Ball, it was really insensitive and selfish and _ignorant_ and I’ve had to self-reflect on the way I acted back then and… and I realize that I have some issues I have to work through but,” Cho pauses, looking hesitant before continuing, “I hope that one day we can be friends again, maybe.”

Cedric really isn’t sure what to say then. He stalls a bit, rubbing the back of his neck, looking around the Owlery. He wasn’t exactly expecting all of this to happen when he woke up that morning and the timing is just—if he were religious, he’d be thinking that god was taking the piss.

She appears genuinely remorseful and Cedric has never been too stingy about giving people second chances (unless their name is Tom Riddle).

In the end he just says, “Sure, Cho.”

She smiles at him and he thinks they’ll probably never go back to the way they were before they started dating, that easy friendship tied together by their mutual love for Quidditch and the way Cho was kind without expecting anything in return while Cedric listened without complaint, but they never really knew each other beyond that.

“Then I guess I’ll see you around,” she says, something in her face smoothed over, a tension he didn’t quite catch before.

He entertains the idea of telling her about his father’s letter if only to see what her response would be but dismisses it almost immediately after it occurs to him, because this is one thing far too close to his heart to trust to someone who never really knew him.

“Yeah,” Cedric responds, smiling back at her and watching her leave, his thoughts drifting away to the letters stuffed into his pockets and what his friends would say, what Harry would say, what Cedric _should_ say in reply.

He thinks on it as he leaves the Owlery soon after Cho, waiting long enough to make sure he won’t accidentally run into her, and feels lighter.

* * *

Harry hurries up the stairs, though he’s not entirely sure why he’s hurrying considering he has nowhere to be now that he found Riddle and passed on Dumbledore’s invitation.

Was it a coincidence that Dumbledore just happened to see Harry and decided to ask him to fetch Riddle on a whim? Somehow he doubts it, though he can’t guess as to what the Headmaster’s motives were.

Could have something to do with the sudden tightness in his chest that Harry started experiencing right before running into Dumbledore.

He still has no idea what happened there except that it was extremely unpleasant. One moment he was on his way toward the West Tower to meet Cedric, the next this horrible feeling of dread washed over him. It was frightening, but also confusing. The whole thing felt foreign as it was happening to him, as if he was somehow disconnected from it.

That was when he felt a hand on his shoulder, steadying him, and when he turned around he came face to face with Dumbledore who stared him in the eyes for a moment and asked with concern whether he was alright.

It was easier to distance himself from the fear and the panic with Dumbledore there and Harry pretended to be just fine, which he’s sure Dumbledore didn’t buy, yet he asked Harry to go deliver his message to Riddle anyway.

Harry arrives at the top of the stairs, turning left to head toward the Entrance Hall as he ponders the strange scene in the dungeons.

Riddle was… for a moment, he looked _terrified_.

The way he was just sitting there, breaths erratic and frantic as if he couldn’t get enough air, hands trembling violently clenched around the fabric of his robes, it was so unlike everything Harry knew Riddle to be that for a while he was just utterly dumbstruck at the sight.

Harry stood there at the very end of the corridor and watched him, recognizing it because it was exactly what Harry had felt happening to him and his heartbeat began to pound, like it was some sort of infection and whatever was happening to Riddle was spreading to Harry.

Riddle’s words echoed through his head then.

_“Part of your soul, however small, is inside of me—”_

He became nauseous as he began to walk toward Riddle, trying not to think of the implications, ones that Dumbledore was probably very aware of when he sent Harry down there to talk to Riddle who seemed to sort of snap out of it once he noticed Harry.

Harry still doesn’t know what to think of it. Does this mean that he’ll just have to deal with the fact that whenever Riddle goes through another episode like that, he’ll inevitably feel it as well? There has to be some way to undo whatever connection exists between the two of them, right? He can’t be expected to go the rest of his life tied to…

He stops in the middle of the Entrance Hall to take a deep breath, not even wanting to linger on the thought that ties him up in unpleasant knots whenever it comes up. He refuses to let this affect him any more than it already has, he won’t let it.

In any case, he should really get to the West Tower and meet up with Cedric. Dinner is in a few minutes and Harry had to skip lunch to try and keep up with his Charms homework, having lagged behind in his studies after everything that’s happened took somewhat of a toll on him.

Resuming his walk to the Tower and hoping he didn’t look _too_ weird for just stopping in the middle of the hall like that, Harry reaches the stairs when he hears the familiar sound of the wheels of a trunk rolling across the stone floor.

Curious, Harry halts on the steps and looks back over his shoulder, and the sight has his mouth slackening in shock before he scrambles down the steps, heading straight for the new arrival who grins from ear to ear when he sees Harry, spreading his arms wide.

“Harry!” Sirius exclaims brightly, and Harry is sure he’ll feel incredibly embarrassed about this later but in the moment all he can think is that Sirius is here and he all but launches himself at his godfather, nearly knocking the air out of the man’s lungs with his hug. “Well, that’s a warm welcome if I’ve ever had one.”

He’s not sure how it happens but with Sirius standing there, solid and real and safe, part of him just crumbles.

“Harry?” Sirius asks gently while Harry holds onto his coat for dear life, trying very hard not to cry as his shoulders shake with choked sobs because everything has been too much and too fast and he had no idea how much he was suppressing, how much he was holding back until the very second Sirius walked through those doors. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Harry takes a moment to gather himself, quietly breathing in and out before finally pulling away from Sirius, meeting his worried expression with a wobbly smile.

“I’m just glad to see you,” Harry replies quietly, and even if Sirius looks entirely unconvinced he doesn’t push the subject then, instead smiling back at him and slinging an arm over his shoulder and it’s only then that Harry realizes the dozen or so students hanging around the Hall, staring at them.

“Oh, you’ll get sick of me soon enough,” Sirius responds teasingly as he leads them back toward the stairs where Harry was standing earlier. “I know how these things go.”

“I won’t,” Harry says, frowning at him, but Sirius just seems playful about it.

“Really?” he replies with raised eyebrows. “Alright then, in that case…”

He releases Harry in front of the stairs, a mischievous light in his eyes.

“When do I get to see the boyfriend?”


	37. Chapter 37

Harry looks _so_ tired.

When he presses his head against Sirius’ chest Sirius has to temper the urge to squeeze him tighter—has he lost weight? He feels thinner than what Sirius remembers from the Christmas holidays.

As Harry pulls away and assures him he’s just glad to see him, Sirius thinks his godson’s cheeks are less pronounced, and Harry never had particularly full cheeks to begin with. They’re not quite gaunt, but getting there. The skin underneath his eyes looks darker as well.

Maybe it’s the light, maybe it’s the desperation in the way his hands gripped Sirius’ robes, maybe Remus rubbed off on him and Sirius is just being overly protective but he can feel it in his bones: _something_ is wrong.

He lets the red flags hang where they flutter high inside his mind, knowing this is neither the time nor the place to have the conversation, and steers Harry away with a smile and a tease instead.

It’s not entirely a ruse as Sirius is genuinely interested in properly spending some time with the boy that got Harry’s neck flushing red and eyes sparking to life every time his name came up during the Christmas break, even through the glum mood he seemed to otherwise be in when not engaging his friends.

Harry asked Sirius for advice back then, about what he should do in regards to a friend who might have done something horrible in his past. Sirius wonders if it could be connected to Harry’s troubled state.

“Remus sends you his love, and parental anxiety,” Sirius says when Harry remains oddly silent, staring at the ground as they walk. “He’s convinced something will end up being set on fire by the end of the semester.”

Harry looks up at him and smiles a bit. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you in check.”

For a moment he looks and sounds so strikingly like James that Sirius nearly misses a step, but he’s not James and he can almost hear Lou’s voice in his head cautioning him already.

So he smiles back and says, “None of that; _I’ll_ keep _you_ in check.”

“I don’t need to be kept in check,” Harry protests.

“Really?” Sirius replies lightly, raising his brows. “Remind me what you did in your first year when you discovered that a giant, three-headed dog was guarding something on the third floor?”

Harry deflates. “I was just… I was curious and I thought… I don’t know. It was stupid of me, I get it.”

“No, it wasn’t stupid, not at all,” Sirius says and it almost hurts to see the disbelief on Harry’s face. “You were right, but you shouldn’t have gone at it alone.”

“Yeah,” Harry mutters at length. “Yeah, I know.”

Sirius pats him on the shoulder, letting his hand rest there for a moment to give it a squeeze. “If you notice something is off, come to me. Don’t try to take care of it on your own; that’s what you have me for.”

Harry is silent for a long moment before he finally says, “Thanks, Sirius.”

No confession yet, but he wasn’t expecting one so soon. Whatever Harry is struggling with, Sirius is sure he’ll tell him when he needs to.

“So, where are we going anyway?” Sirius remarks, having let Harry lead him through Hogwarts towards some unknown destination where he should be meeting up with his boyfriend. 

“I’m supposed to meet Cedric by the West Tower,” Harry says as they pass through the corridor, not seeming the least bit perturbed by the stares and the whispers of students that they pass by. Used to it by now no doubt, Sirius thinks with burning resentment.

Sometimes he’s convinced should have killed Wormtail when he had the chance, innocence be damned, but that would have been selfish of him. Harry needs him, Remus needs him (as complicated as that situation has become) and Sirius isn’t about to abandon anyone ever again.

He abandoned too many people too many times in his life already.

“Planning on having a lunch date?” Sirius says to Harry, who ducks his head but not far enough to obscure the grin on his face as Sirius messes up his hair again, not that it makes much difference.

Harry is just like Lily in that way; quiet private smiles, too subtle for someone as blockheaded as James to notice. It had been painful watching all the pining for months on end. By the time they actually began to date in earnest Sirius honestly should have been bald from ripping his hair out.

Considering he had to watch James try to flirt and inevitably accidentally insult Lily instead on numerous occasions, when Harry told him how easily he and Cedric hit it off Sirius was surprised. It’s at least one point in Cedric’s favour; he’s apparently not a complete dolt.

That or Harry is a real go-getter, the way James fancied himself being but really, really wasn’t.

“Sort of,” Harry replies with a shrug. “It’s not a real date, we’re just having lunch.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your hair,” Sirius says as they reach the stairs leading up to the West Tower. “I have to go meet with Dumbledore in a bit anyway, would have headed straight to his office if I hadn’t run into you.”

“I didn’t mean that you weren’t welcome.”

“I know, Harry, I’m just teasing you.”

Sirius sets his trunk against the wall, figuring he can dump it in the old Defence classroom, assuming it hasn’t changed. He only brought teaching material with him anyway, preferring to stay in Hogsmeade which was probably a bit of an unorthodox choice, but he enjoyed the serenity of the walk up to Hogwarts castle in a way he wouldn’t have before Azkaban.

Hogsmeade might be a wizarding village, it’s still quiet throughout the weekdays and especially around this time of year. Not like Hogwarts, which is always teeming with life and chatter and noise. Sirius had become used to the distant but constant din of cars driving past, unobtrusive and blanketed by the soft tones of a piano every now and then when Remus felt like playing a tune, and if Remus wasn’t playing then there would be music coming from some other part of the house; he knew how much Sirius hated the silence.

It had to be a balance. The noise, after spending so many years confined with only the incoherent and often mad babbling of his fellow prisoners, felt oppressive. The other extreme was too familiar, too much like the sensation of a dementor drawing near, sucking all the sound and warmth out of the air, leaving him alone with his pain.

For Sirius, Hogsmeade struck that balance nicely. He had a chance to enjoy the atmosphere earlier when he arrived at the inn and Madam Rosmerta greeted him with a wobbly but sincere smile, looking as if she wanted to hug him but unsure if that would be appropriate. He’d always been her favourite.

What was not as welcoming was finding out he was staying just a few rooms away from Rita Skeeter, whose smile had been wholly unpleasant once she laid eyes on him in the hallway.

Sirius stiffened at the sight of her, saw her take a step forward and quickly ducked behind a witch walking past him to slip down the stairs, escaping an interrogation by inches.

When he asked Rosmerta what _Skeeter_ was doing there, the innkeeper regretfully informed him that she’d already paid another month’s worth of rent—had Rosmerta known Sirius would be staying here and smear him all over the Daily Prophet’s front page, she assured him she would’ve pointed Skeeter the door on arrival.

Barely, just barely, Sirius managed not to snap at the convenience of her remorse now when she apparently hadn’t batted an eye when Skeeter outed his godson to the whole world, but he supposed there were some silver linings to this.

With Sirius right underneath her nose Skeeter should be less inclined to focus her attention on Harry, though he’s uncertain how long he’ll manage to keep her attention, or whether whatever she is working on now is even related to him at all.

He supposes he’ll have to go and cause an innocuous scandal or two. He’s good at those.

“Sirius?”

Harry is staring at him with a frown, and Sirius realizes with a start that he completely drifted off in his thoughts, but he doesn’t _think_ Harry said anything during that time or he would have heard it.

He tries not to feel too relieved when Harry continues with, “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” Sirius responds.

“Did Dumbledore tell you about…” Harry trails off nervously, as if he expects Sirius to finish the sentence, but Sirius hasn’t the faintest idea what his meaning is.

His correspondence with Dumbledore has been through letters and Dumbledore didn’t mention anything pertaining to Harry, aside from how much good it would do him to have Sirius near. The fact that Harry looks like his tooth is being pulled out just asking him isn’t a very good sign either.

“About what, Harry?”

Harry averts his gaze, shaking his head. “Never mind, it’s nothing.”

Definitely not nothing, but before Sirius can open his mouth to gently try and prod a bit more, a tall student that Sirius had noticed coming down the stairs from the edges of his vision all but jumps down the last few steps at the sight of them—or rather, at the sight of Harry.

“Harry!” the student calls, and Harry turns around just in time to be swept up in the (odd) one-armed hug that follows as Sirius realizes with amusement that the student in question is one very excited Cedric Diggory. “You are not going to _believe_ what just happened to me.”

“Cedric!” Harry exclaims, voice cracking on the name and a dark blush already working up his face, likely not quite having had the time to prepare himself for this particular meeting. “Guess who just arrived?”

Sirius clears his throat loudly, Cedric’s eyes flitting over to his face.

“Oh.” Cedric blinks at him, then starts to stammer. “Mr. Black! Er, Professor Black, I didn’t know—”

“Take it easy, Cedric,” Sirius replies, knowing he is going to have a lot of fun with this one as he suppresses the reflex to correct him since he can hardly go by his first name now that he is actually a teacher at Hogwarts.

Harry and his friends are the exception, but _the boyfriend_ will have to earn that privilege.

“Right, sorry, I just wasn’t expecting you,” Cedric replies, and to Sirius’ surprise actually takes the initiative to hold out his hand, his right hand, which he then quickly retracts in a half-aborted movement as he switches to his left instead.

A glance to Harry’s expression confirms that he’s just as confused as Sirius, who takes the offered hand without comment nonetheless. Could just be an injury.

“It’s, ah, nice to see you again, sir,” Cedric mumbles, embarrassed, but at least has the spine not to avoid eye-contact.

The first time they met was at the Quidditch World Cup finals, though Sirius didn’t see much of Cedric then as Harry and the antics of the Weasley brood took up most of his attention. Remus, in his short time teaching at Hogwarts, assured him Cedric was a good lad, studious and helpful towards his peers, not to mention very talented.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s right for Harry.

Cedric’s grip is strong when Sirius accepts his hand, but not unpleasantly so—Sirius takes some delight in making him squirm by squeezing. “Likewise.”

“When do you expect to start teaching?” Cedric says and to his credit doesn’t rub at his hand as he retracts it back to his side.

“Tomorrow, I reckon.”

“That quick?” Harry doesn’t look unhappy with the news, just taken aback. “Shouldn’t you get more time to prepare?”

“I’ve had plenty of time,” Sirius replies nonchalantly. “There wasn’t much _to_ prepare.”

The adherence to the curriculum for Defence Against the Dark Arts the past few years in particular has apparently been absolutely atrocious, or so Remus clarified when Sirius asked about his time at Hogwarts.

No doubt it has to do with the curse on the position as switching to a new teacher each year isn’t exactly conducive in establishing consistency in lesson plans, though Dumbledore assured him that he had found a way for the curse to be lifted (naturally not disclosing what his methods were, though if anyone would be able to lift the curse it _would_ be Dumbledore).

Sirius’ second, third and fourth years are all going to have to be taught as if they were first years again considering the damage already done, but his fourth and fifth years are his biggest concern at the moment, being at the cusp of starting their exams. The sixth and seventh years should take care of themselves since at that point most of Sirius’ job will amount to summarizing and refreshers, but those in the middle have the least amount of time to catch up.

He trusts Remus did a brilliant job in terms of teaching them about magical creatures, so he can put that subject aside for the moment. Apparently Moody had gotten them started on the Unforgivable Curses and though his focus on the subject sounds macabre at best, it would be easiest if he could build on what has already been established.

After all, a wizard in modern Britain is much more likely to come across a criminal with a wand than a vampire.

“Well, the sooner the better, right?” Cedric says. “We’ve missed out on too many lessons already.”

Right, Cedric is a sixth year. While he won’t have to worry about any exams this time around, he still has his N.E.W.Ts ahead of him once he makes it through the Triwizard Tournament.

It speaks well of him that he still thought of his schoolwork even when otherwise preoccupied with trying to win the Triwizard Cup; in his shoes at that age, Sirius would not have.

“Are we going to continue with the Unforgivable Curses?” Harry inquires, looking somewhat uncomfortable asking the question which makes Sirius wonder what kind of crazy rubbish old Mad-Eye has been up to the past few months. He makes a mental note to visit St. Mungo’s to find out.

“No, I think my predecessor spent more than enough time on those,” Sirius responds. “The frenzy about Death Eaters might have inspired some paranoia; it’s not often you’ll find someone competent and willing enough to use them thoughtlessly. Death Eaters are _not_ the norm.”

Hopefully none of these children will ever have to find out just how far beyond the norm Death Eaters really are.

“Then what will you be teaching us?”

“Self-defence, of course,” Sirius responds, somewhat stunned the question was even asked. “There aren’t many Aurors left after… well, I wouldn’t rely on the Ministry unless absolutely necessary, let’s put it that way.”

“Self-defence… like duelling?” Cedric ventures, and Sirius breathes out a laugh.

“Of a kind.”

He heard about Lockhart’s disastrous attempts two years ago, never mind that even if the charlatan’s lessons were successful they wouldn’t have been _useful;_ no common criminal is going to politely walk ten paces, get into a duelling stance and count to three.

While Sirius does have sparring matches planned in several classes, none of them involve the pomp and circumstance you’ll only find in official duelling tournaments.

At both Harry and Cedric’s curious and unsatisfied looks, Sirius grins and says with a bit of glee, “You’ll just have to wait and see!”

The familiar sound of the clock tower’s bell rings through the halls, cutting off their conversation as it strikes twelve.

“Time for me to head upstairs,” Sirius announces regretfully, figuring he can dump his trunk in his new classroom on his way to the Headmaster’s Office. “You two have fun. Safe, _protected_ fun—”

“Merlin, Sirius, just go!” Harry exclaims as Cedric turns red again, giving him a shove.

Sirius laughs loudly, tugging his trunk along with him as he leaves them be.

Teenagers are so easy to tease.

* * *

The golden band of Marvolo Gaunt’s ring gleams quietly on Dumbledore’s desk, reflecting the light of the blue sapphire resting inside Ravenclaw’s Diadem beside it.

He hears them calling to him, but he can’t quite make out the words.

If he could get a little bit closer—

“I find myself in a bit of a pickle.”

Dumbledore’s voice cuts through the noise so sharply Tom stiffens mid-step, not even having realized he started approaching the desk. He pulls his leg back and looks up to meet Dumbledore’s eyes, watching his every move.

“Why haven’t you destroyed them yet?” Tom asks, trying not to look back down at the desk but the glint of silver and gold taunts him, green and blue and his, _his, yours—_

“Focus, Tom.”

Tom clenches his jaw. “I am.”

Dumbledore pauses for a moment as if to make sure, before he finally continues. “I certainly have the means to destroy them, but the possible consequences of doing so have me facing a dilemma of sorts.”

“It will bring me and my… Lord Voldemort two steps closer to mortality,” Tom replies, not understanding the delay though he is grateful for it, as he can’t imagine having a Horcrux destroyed to be a pleasant feeling. “Isn’t that the goal?”

“If only it were so simple,” Dumbledore says ruefully as he takes a seat behind his desk while Tom remains standing. “Your rebirth, as it were, has complicated matters—rather, a singular matter. That of the soul.”

“My soul,” Tom infers, though he does not see where Dumbledore is going with this. “Would destroying the Horcruxes cripple me, somehow?”

“Nothing so immediate.” Dumbledore picks up the ring and Tom smothers the urge to slap it out of his fingers. “This might be pure conjecture on my part as the literature in this area is rather thin, however, I have reason to believe that eliminating any of the Horcruxes might cost you far more than parts of your soul.”

“Such as?”

Dumbledore twists the ring in his hand, eyes lingering on the symbol etched into its black stone. The Unbreakable Vow compelled Tom to warn Dumbledore away from wearing it when divulging its location, considering the curse he—Voldemort—had placed upon it all those years ago.

Watching as Dumbledore lowers the ring back down beside the glittering diadem again, Tom follows the movements of his wrinkled hands that fold atop the desk in a habit Tom knew him to have even as a teacher in the classroom. He has changed so little from the doddering old fool Tom met as a child.

He meets Dumbledore’s gaze when it lifts from the ring because at this point he has nothing to hide anymore, nothing at all and the knowledge of it churns in his stomach.

“It might cost you the afterlife.”

Tom stares, waits for Dumbledore to clarify that it was a very poorly-worded metaphor or even a joke, but Dumbledore doesn’t so much as twitch.

“The afterlife?” Tom repeats slowly, wondering if Dumbledore finally succumbed to senility. “Why should I care for the afterlife when—”

 _I’m immortal_ , he wants to say, but stops, because he realizes that once all the Horcruxes are destroyed, once Voldemort is destroyed, Tom will no longer be immortal and he will likely never have another chance to create a Horcrux again because he’ll be in Azkaban, if he isn’t executed.

Tom never stopped to think about it before.

How could he not have seen this?

“The shard of a soul that was torn into pieces might not be able to move on after death, incomplete as it is,” Dumbledore continues as Tom finds himself frozen in place. “Many would claim it justice served, but an eternity is an awfully long time, too long to sentence anyone to an in-between.”

“Worried for my soul, now?” Tom scoffs weakly. He is standing on unsteady feet and it feels as if the slightest push could tip him over. “Do you also worry for Voldemort’s?”

Dumbledore’s eyes shine with light reflected from the fireplace, brighter than the dulled gold on Marvolo Gaunt’s ring. “We both know the comparison is inexact, at best.”

“I am still—”

“You have come to care for Harry and therein lies your difference,” Dumbledore says, and Tom is overcome with such indignation that he finds it impossible to reply. “Although I do not believe you understand what that means.”

It is an unprecedented blunder on his part to let the outrage show in the way he opens his mouth wide to protest, in the way his brows contort as if they cannot decide whether they want to arch up to his hairline or wrench into a scowl. He can’t stop himself and by the time he realizes his mistake it’s already far too late.

That he should become so incensed rather than play along as he would do any other time betrays his truth, something he would never admit out loud: he does care about Harry, and he doesn’t know what that means.

Dumbledore sees as much in his face. “I don’t want to give up on you a second time, Tom.”

“As if you ever cared to give me a chance in the first place,” Tom snaps, feeling raw and exposed in a way he hasn’t since the day he watched his cupboard burn, so he lashes out, hoping that something will hit, and hurt. “We’re all just pawns to you in the end, aren’t we? What happens to me once I’ve outlived my usefulness? All this talk about your moral dilemma yet in truth you’ve already decided what to do with me, haven’t you?”

“That all depends on you,” Dumbledore replies, perfectly even, his composure only serving to infuriate Tom further. “And I should think that I won’t be the only one to make this decision.”

Tom stills.

Harry.

“You have wronged him most of all,” Dumbledore continues, a knowing look in his eyes. “He ought to have a say in this, don’t you agree?”

“Acting so self-righteous,” Tom spits, fists clenching, “when you would have sacrificed him before without hesitation. What would have happened to Harry, had I never taken the Horcrux from him?”

“That is a question for my own conscience to bear; I am only thankful it will never have to be answered.” Dumbledore does not avert his gaze, steadfast. “It is striking how your attempt to drain him from his life might have ended up saving it instead.”

Tom forgot how hot rage could burn, how it could pulse like a living, breathing thing of its own until that very moment. It comes over him like a scream inside his veins, thoughts incoherently violent inside his head.

The two Horcruxes on the desk are louder than ever.

_Yours._

Dumbledore watches him like a hawk.

_Come claim us._

The anger dims suddenly as if someone had put a lid on top of it, contained it inside a corner of his mind. His calm is artifice, but for a moment he is clearheaded again and his attention is set upon the two heirlooms in front of him, whispering promises of power, yearning to become whole again.

_Yours, yours, yours._

Breathing in deep, Tom closes his eyes and exhales slowly, opening them again to look at Dumbledore once more.

“What is the alternative to destroying the Horcruxes?” he asks. “How would you save my soul?”

Dumbledore stares at him for a while, silent, the sound of flames flickering in the fireplace and the soft snoring of various portraits the only noise. Dumbledore’s phoenix is not present, and the strange silver trinkets and contraptions Tom would normally find whirring and spinning on a table are not there, replaced by a bowl of sherbet lemons.

“Unfortunately we cannot have that conversation quite yet,” Dumbledore replies, tilting his chin down slightly to look at Tom over the rim of his glasses. “Not until you’ve reconciled the one still attached to you.”

Tom is not surprised, not truly, and can only watch with a dark hatred stirring inside his chest that is so sudden and vicious that he finds himself petrified with it as Dumbledore carefully picks the Horcruxes up and moves them somewhere below his desk. Tom hears a series of loud clicking noises, and presumes it to be the lock of a small box sitting by Dumbledore’s feet, doubtlessly protected by countless charms.

As if the clock had been waiting for Dumbledore to finish the bell rings twelve right after he locks the Horcruxes away, and Dumbledore glances at a bronze antique pocket watch on his desk before turning back to Tom.

“Have you had lunch yet, Tom?” he asks, and Tom has to bite on his tongue not to snarl in reply.

“No,” he manages stiffly. “I suppose I should head down.”

Dumbledore inclines his head and lets him go without another word.

Once Tom finds himself alone again outside of Dumbledore’s office the hatred and the anger fill his throat and he is drowning with it, choking on it. His heartbeat stutters painfully and he grabs at the robes on his chest with a hand.

For all his genuine loathing of Dumbledore, this doesn’t feel right.

He hears a different whisper.

_Let me in._

* * *

The students surrounding him, even some of Harry’s fellow Gryffindors, whisper among themselves when Dumbledore introduces Sirius during dinner later that same day.

Where usually Harry would’ve purposefully ignored their glances and gossiping, this time he doesn’t have to work at it at all considering his attention is fast drifting off to other topics.

Lunch with Cedric was strange for a number of reasons, but mainly because both of them were too distracted to talk much. Cedric was distant and acting oddly, even when recounting the story of what happened to him in the Owlery with his father’s letter and then running into Cho. He trailed off several times, thoughts clearly elsewhere, needing to be prompted by Harry to finish telling the whole ordeal.

When Harry reached out to hold his hand during their half-hearted conversation, Cedric had flinched hard and quickly pulled away, apologizing awkwardly and muttering something about having sprained his wrist.

Asking after how exactly he sprained his wrist just got him more vague, elusive replies until Harry felt it was probably best to let it go since Cedric clearly wasn’t in the mood to talk about it. It was a very sudden and stark change to the excited way Cedric had greeted him earlier, which makes Harry wonder if meeting Sirius put him off. Was it too soon?

Harry, on his end, could feel himself becoming more agitated throughout their lunch date, but at an unusually quick pace. He still feels… he doesn’t want to say angry, but he does, and he has no idea why, which only makes him angrier.

Sure, it’s frustrating and worrying that Cedric has been acting a bit dodgy when Harry has never known him to be anything other than honest and sincere, but that’s no reason to get _angry_. Not like the way he felt then, tempted to—throw something, or yell. It was a restless, almost violent anger and Harry is still disturbed at the memory of it, even though it has calmed into something of a simmer. 

Glancing toward the Hufflepuff table, Harry catches Cedric’s eyes and Cedric looks hesitant as he smiles at him. Harry can’t bring himself to smile back, and looks away toward where Sirius sits (as far removed from Snape as possible, which puts him right next to Professor McGonagall, who is beginning to look strained while Sirius cheerfully chats on).

It’s not fair of him, he knows that. Cedric was clearly shaken up by the day’s events, yet Harry couldn’t get past the fact that he didn’t want to hold hands during lunch, the suspicion that Cedric is hiding something from him putting him on edge. He should swallow his complaints and just be there for Cedric, not… throw a temper tantrum, or whatever it was he felt compelled to do during lunch.

This whole day has just been one mess after another.

Someone kicks his ankle underneath the table and he looks up to meet Ginny’s gaze across from him.

“Are you alright?” she asks, lowering her spoon back into her steaming bowl of tomato soup.

“Are you?” Harry returns the question.

Ginny shrugs, looking down at her bowl and stirring it absently. “It’s getting better.”

Harry nudges her ankle back with the toe of his shoe, prompting her to look up at him with a faint smile.

“Really,” she assures him. “I’m getting better at… at handling it. I can always go to Madam Pomfrey otherwise.”

At Harry’s questioning look, Ginny elaborates, “She’s a certified Mind Healer too, you know.”

He didn’t know that, actually.

“Have you visited her before?” he asks curiously, and Ginny nods.

“A few times, but she didn’t give me a potion or anything, we just… we talked.” She shrugs again, averting her eyes from Harry to where the matron in question sits at the staff table. “It helped, I think.”

“That’s good, then.” Harry, to his credit, hasn’t looked at where Riddle sits at the staff table once so far and he plans on keeping it that way.

What he saw—and felt—that morning still weighs on his mind, but so do many other things. It’s getting tiring keeping up with it all, like an emotional whiplash.

“Harry,” Ginny says, pulling his attention again. “You should really consider it.”

“Consider what?”

“Talking to someone.” She looks worried. “You haven’t been looking too good lately.”

“I do talk,” Harry says and the words barely leave his lips when he realizes that’s not entirely true.

He hasn’t talked to Cedric about Tom since the night they spent in the Room of Requirement, and he’s all but cut off from Hermione and Ron. But what is he supposed to do? Talking about things has never been comfortable for him, least of all talking about how he feels. Maybe it’s time to try.

At Ginny’s insistent stare, Harry concedes.

“I’ll talk to Sirius.”

And he does, after dinner when Sirius is heading towards the Great Hall’s doors and most of the students have already filtered out, retreating to their respective dorms for the evening.

Cedric already left after Harry gave him a wave across the tables as a signal not to wait for him, though he looked conflicted leaving. Hopefully getting a good night’s rest will help ease whatever has suddenly come between them.

“Hello there, Harry,” Sirius greets him when he notices Harry approach, lingering by the doors to wait for him to catch up. “Have a nice date?”

Harry rolls his eyes as he joins him and they leave the Great Hall together. “It was…” He wants to say fine, but it wasn’t fine. Not really.

“It was weird,” Harry admits.

Sirius looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

“I think something’s bothering Cedric but he doesn’t want to talk about it, and I have no idea what to do,” Harry says quickly, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a single breath. “Also, Ron and I are having a fight.”

“Yes, I noticed,” Sirius replies mildly, brows arched. “Not to sound like an arse here, but have you tried talking?”

“Why is everyone telling me to talk?” Harry grumbles; first Hermione, now Ginny and Sirius. If it were that easy all his problems would be solved already. “I talk!”

“About how you feel, Harry.”

“Well, the last time I did that—”

Riddle.

His chest clenches painfully and Harry snaps his mouth shut.

“Ah, there’s the problem,” Sirius says, nudging him with his elbow. “The wall.”

“I don’t have a-a _wall_ , I just…” Harry shrugs, not knowing what else to say.

Maybe there is a wall. He doesn’t know; it’s not as if he ever had any examples to follow. Isn’t it normal to keep some things to yourself? Everyone else seems to do it.

“What’s this fight with Ron about?”

“It’s stupid,” Harry replies carefully. “I think we both know it’s stupid but we just, I don’t know, we haven’t… we haven’t talked about it.”

Sirius gives him a pointed look and Harry lets out a sigh. “I know, I know!”

But what is he supposed to do?

“I might know a way for you to fix things with Ron,” Sirius mentions all casual-like as he leads them to the Entrance Hall, confusing Harry somewhat since he assumed Sirius would be staying at Hogwarts. “Although you’re on your own with Cedric, sorry to say; emotional talk isn’t exactly my strongest point either. I could ask Remus for you?”

“Fix things how?” he asks. “Please don’t ask Remus; telling it to you was embarrassing enough. Also, where are we going?”

“Heading back to Hogsmeade,” Sirius answers as they come to a stop in front of the entrance doors. “I’m staying at the Three Broomsticks—and don’t worry about it, you’ll see what I mean tomorrow.” 

Harry tells Sirius goodnight with no small amount of confusion, head spinning and feeling an ache build between his temples. Today has been a… day.

Tomorrow, it turns out, is also a day.

It’s the first day of February (the Second Task just a scarce four weeks away, as if Harry didn't have enough things to worry about) and a cloudy Tuesday morning when Harry makes his way down from the Gryffindor Tower toward the Defence classroom after having missed breakfast thanks to him oversleeping an entire hour.

His entire night was spent twisting and turning in his bed, and while usually he would draw the curtain separating his and Ron’s bed he had left it open that evening. He thought he could see Ron casting a glance toward him every now and then in the dark, but no words were ever exchanged and eventually Harry just turned to lie down on his side, back turned toward him.

Not until everyone in his dorm had fallen asleep did he feel comfortable enough to shift around again, though it did him little good. He tried counting sheep, tried thinking about Quidditch, tried very hard _not_ to think about Riddle until he finally drifted off to thoughts about Cedric which turned out to be a mixture of good and bad (good being the heat curling in his stomach, bad being the guilt underlying that) but did not help him fall asleep.

It wasn’t until he became so tired from trying to fall asleep that he actually did fall asleep, but by then it had been four in the morning.

So he finds himself hurrying up the stairs with an empty stomach, though to his relief the classroom door is open and students are still shuffling inside one after the other.

Harry joins the line behind two Ravenclaw girls, trying to peer over their shoulders to see if he can spot Sirius, but can’t find him anywhere. When he tries looking toward the desk, his eyes slide away halfway through the motion and his attention is drawn somewhere else.  

The classroom itself looks rather different this time around as well. Instead of a regular formation of tables facing the Professor’s desk, they have been split up into two rows on the left and right side of the classroom, facing each other and leaving a large space in-between where a raised platform runs along the centre, reminding Harry of the disastrous duelling club Lockhart tried to start in his second year.

This time, however, there’s a wooden mannequin standing on one end of the platform with a series of runes carved into its head, none Harry can make out from this distance. It is also holding what looks to be a wand in its hand.

Aside from this odd change in seating arrangements and the added presence of the duelling platform, Harry sees moving posters on the walls that weren’t there before.

Some of them depict various Dark creatures that Harry recognizes such as a Grindylow and a Red Cap with writing underneath, likely descriptions of the creatures. Other posters lack pictures, but list various spells and their effects. Beside the informational posters there are two large bookcases at the back of the class as well that weren’t there before, likely filled with literature relevant to their classes.

All in all, it feels like a real Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, and the students surrounding him are all whispers and stares as they enter.

Harry takes a seat on the left side of the room, next to Neville.

“Morning, Harry,” Neville greets him, glancing nervously at the duelling platform in front of them.

“Hey,” Harry replies as he drops his bag beside his table and settles down in his chair. “Have you seen Si- er, Professor Black?”

Neville shakes his head—a hand slaps something down on his desk.

When Harry looks down he sees it’s an apple, and when he looks up he sees the hand attached to it belongs to an exasperated Hermione.

“Honestly,” is the only thing she huffs, before she walks over to a table a few seats away from his.

Harry takes the apple gratefully, feeling touched by the gesture and deciding he might as well get a few bites in before Sirius shows up, watching more students wander in as he eats.

When Ron walks in he’s as wide-eyed at the change as anyone else, though his gaze quickly settles on Hermione and he takes the seat beside her in the front row a few seats down from Harry and close to the front of the classroom, which surprises Harry somewhat. Usually Ron avoids the front row like the plague, especially when it’s close to the Professor’s desk—which, when Harry tries to look at it again, finds that he is compelled to look somewhere else, concentration scattering.

Instead he’s distracted by Malfoy walking in next, watching his eyes narrow but, without even a single scoff, sits down at a table on the opposite side of the room, directly across from Harry’s though he does not look at him.

The sound of chattering starts growing in volume and Harry finishes his apple, deciding to be lazy and levitating it over to the garbage can in the corner of the classroom, not wanting to risk throwing and missing and making a mess on the floor on Sirius’ first day of teaching.

Harry begins to frown as minutes pass and Sirius still isn’t there. He looks at the door that has apparently closed at some point when the last student entered, and looks toward the front of the classroom but again, before his eyes can settle there his attention immediately drifts away.

Something… something strange is going on here.

“Neville,” he mutters, finding it becoming increasingly difficult to look at the Professor’s desk. “Can you look at the front of the classroom?”

Neville looks at Harry, then turns his head but his eyes never find the desk. Instead he ends up staring out the window.

“Neville?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you look?”

Neville looks at Harry again, and blinks. “Oh, right. Um…”

Harry watches him try again, but his gaze slides right over it. Neville’s brows furrow deeply.

“That’s… that’s odd, I can’t seem to focus.”

Same problem as him, then. Harry looks around to the other students surrounding him, two girls from Ravenclaw sitting behind him—one of them is Padma, Parvati’s twin—and another girl from Hufflepuff on his right, Susan Bones

“Hey, can you guys look toward the front of the classroom?” he asks them.

“Why?” Padma asks, but her friend whose name Harry doesn’t know and Susan are already looking, or _trying_ to look. They are both immediately distracted, however, and end up looking somewhere else entirely.

“I keep trying to look, but something is stopping me,” Harry explains, frustrated because he doesn’t know how else to explain it. “Every time I try I feel like something is forcing me to look away.”

“You’re right,” Susan says, surprised. “I can’t seem to look.”

“What are you babbling about?” Malfoy sneers from his seat, catching the attention of half the people in the classroom. “Look where?”

“The Professor’s desk,” Harry replies, annoyed.

Several students now try looking toward the desk, and it’s almost comical to watch how they all immediately look somewhere else, like some sort of synchronized dance.

Dean gets up from his seat with a frown, taking a few steps as if to approach the desk but abruptly spins right around and starts walking the opposite direction toward the bookcases instead.

“Dean, what are you doing?” Seamus asks, confused, and Dean stops.

“Uh, I was…” Dean looks around, baffled. “I was getting a book?”

“No, you were heading to the desk, remember?”

“Was I?”

The entire classroom is now focused—or rather, not focused as it were—on the matter of the mysterious desk, but no one seems to be able to quite overcome whatever strange magic is preventing them from looking. Harry comes close a few times, once he thinks he actually notices a figure standing in front of the desk but before he can really _look_ he is forced away again.

“It’s a Repelling Charm!” Hermione yells excitedly, and it’s as if Sirius appears out of thin air, leaning back against his desk with a grin and causing quite a few gasps and even one shriek, but of course he has been standing there the entire time. They were just unable to notice him before.

“Three points to Gryffindor for noticing the charm and another three points for the answer,” Sirius announces cheerfully. “Repelling Charms like these are not infallible; anyone with strong enough willpower can eventually learn to overcome them, but in terms of emergencies they are effective in giving you a quick way to hide if you ever find yourself cornered, be it by a Dark creature or by another wizard, or to misdirect someone.”

That’s certainly one way to get a classroom’s undivided attention—without a lightning strike from the ceiling announcing his arrival, no less.

“Welcome back to Defence Against the Dark Arts,” Sirius says, looking wholly comfortable being in the spotlight, as it seems to come naturally to him. “I understand my predecessor got you started on some curses. We’ll be continuing that theme for the remainder of the year, but don’t worry, we won’t be torturing any poor arachnids this time around.”

He doesn’t introduce himself, probably doesn’t think it necessary and in truth it isn’t. The Daily Prophet made more than sure of that.

“The coming month I’ll be introducing you to the basics of defensive spellwork, things you can use to escape or in a fight, if necessary,” Sirius continues, taking out his wand for his inner pocket, and pointing toward the mannequin. The tip of his wand lights up green, but so does the mannequin’s head, the runes glowing softly as it springs to life, standing up straight. “This is your practice dummy; you’ll be using this for learning new spells when you’re not sparring.”

“Sparring?” Ron says. “You mean like duelling matches?”

“No, nothing of the sort,” Sirius says, though he tilts his head in thought. “You’ve learned the Disarming Charm?”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect.” Sirius swipes his wand to the left and the mannequin takes a duelling stance—it reminds Harry a bit of the giant wizarding chess pieces they faced in their first year with how rigidly it moves. “Mind coming up to the platform to demonstrate?”

Ron glances at the dummy, looking apprehensive for a moment before he nods and gets up from his seat, walking over to the platform and getting up at the other end across the dummy, closest to the bookcases.

“Now, any spell I fire off with this dummy here will be decreased in power to the point of being completely harmless,” Sirius explains. “At most, you’ll feel a little sting. The goal here is to hit the dummy and disarm before it disarms you. Are you ready?”

“Ready,” Ron says, taking his own stance, though it’s less formal than the dummy’s; one leg back, body angled sideways, wand pointed forward but his arm relaxed.

“Begin!”

The moment the words have left Sirius’ mouth, he moves his hand as if to cast a spell and the dummy follows his movements exactly, shooting off a flash of white light that Ron avoids by quickly ducking.

“ _Expelliarmus_!” Ron calls out while still crouched low to the ground, firing off his own spell that comes out as a stream of red.

The mannequin does not manage to get out of the way in time, its movements too heavy and clunky to dodge it as the spell aims right at the dummy’s arm, hitting the wand and flinging it out of the dummy’s hand as it clatters on the ground beside the platform.

“Very good!” Sirius commends, swiping his wand down as the dummy becomes stationary again. He flicks his wrist and the wand that flew out of the dummy’s hand returns to it. “Your movements are natural and you seem to have a good feel for it. Anyone else want a turn?”

Ron having broken the ice, a few more students raise their hands, Harry among them. Sirius picks Susan, sitting beside him, first.

She is slower than Ron, but more grounded and instead of dodging the spell the dummy fires off she counters it with the Disarming Charm instead, the spell bouncing back at the dummy and hitting it in the chest, making it freeze long enough for her to disarm it.

After Susan is a boy from Ravenclaw, Terry Boot, who is the first to get hit by Sirius’ mannequin after missing it, his errant spell disappearing into an invisible barrier behind the dummy before it can hit a wall and bounce around the classroom.

Harry is picked next, and he has seen enough to know what Sirius’ first move will be—the second Sirius says the word Harry shoots the spell as quickly as he can, just a second quick enough to best the dummy’s heavy movements and disarm it before it has a chance to fire the spell.

“Expertly done, Harry,” Sirius praises him while returning the dummy’s wand to it a third time, Harry unable to suppress a big smile at the comment. “An important part of duelling is being able to anticipate your opponent’s next move and reacting accordingly.”

Just as Harry wants to get off the platform to give another a turn, Sirius raises a hand, stopping him.

“How about a sparring match?” he suggests, and Harry raises his brows, but doesn’t mind the idea at all.

Sirius turns to Ron. “What do you say, Mr. Weasley? I think you’d make good opponents.”

Ron looks taken aback, but Harry now understands what Sirius meant with fixing things.

“I’m up for it,” Harry says, looking at Ron, who frowns at him but gets up from his desk either way, marching up to the platform as Sirius moves his dummy down so he can take its place.

He doesn’t say anything, just takes up his stance again. Harry mimics it, though he notices Ron is holding up his wand higher than he did last time, and wider, further away from his body. Before he can make anything of the observation, however, Sirius asks, “Ready?”

“I’m ready,” Harry says.

Ron rolls his shoulders once. “Ready.”

Their eyes are locked.

“Begin!”

Harry is quick on the draw again, firing his spell first. “ _Expelliarmus_!”

Harry’s precise aim works against him as all Ron has to do is move his arm away and the spell misses. Ron fires back and Harry has to jump to the left to dodge, nearly falling off the edge of the platform but righting himself just quick enough.

“ _Expelliarmus_!”

He counters at the same time Ron does, their spells meeting in the middle, Ron’s bouncing back and he has to duck again to avoid his own charm. Harry sees the opportunity and launches another one.

The bright jet of scarlet light hits Ron in the chest and he falls over onto his back.

Harry curses, shoving his wand back into his pocket and hurrying over.

“Ron!” he calls, crouching down beside him though Ron is already pushing himself to sit up. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, I just lost my balance,” Ron grumbles, and he does look fine. “Bloody hell, Harry—going a bit overboard there.”

“Sorry.” Harry stands up, offering him his hand. He supposes this is why Sirius set up the dummy.

Ron puts his own wand away and takes it without hesitation, letting Harry pull him up. “I really thought I had you there for a second.”

“Almost,” Harry responds, grinning. “Nearly knocked me off the platform.”

“It was a good effort,” Sirius says, and neither of them had noticed him walking over, eyes flitting over Ron as if to make sure he’s okay before looking up at them. “I think with a little more practice you’ll both be able to master the charm easily enough, so take a seat and enjoy the rest of the show.”

Sirius turns toward the rest of the class. “Let’s have a few more people practicing on the dummy, before we move onto more sparring matches. Any volunteers?”

Half the class raises their hands now as Harry and Ron walk back toward their seats, and after a moment of hesitation, instead of returning to his own seat Harry takes the empty seat behind Ron.

“Hey,” he hisses, and Ron turns around with arched brows.

“Hey.”

There’s an awkward silence as they stare at each other for a moment, until Hermione lets out an irritated sigh.

“Are we going to talk about the fight, or not?”

Harry clears his throat. “Yeah, so—”

“We both said stupid things,” Ron interrupts.

Harry stays silent, watching Ron struggle for a brief moment, mouth opening and closing several times before he finally goes on.

“But I’ve been thinking about it and I guess I took it too personally, what you said, and—”

“I was being a total wanker,” Harry interrupts, startling a laugh out of Ron.

“A little bit.”

Most of the other students are distracted by Malfoy’s loud-mouthed attempt at besting the dummy, but Hermione is still watching them both, particularly Ron as he continues, “But you know what I realized while I was thinking about it?”

“What?”

“We’re just kids, Harry,” Ron says, and Harry just stares at him. “Why are we worrying about this stuff in the first place? I haven’t even had my O.W.L.s yet and I feel like I’m already growing gray hairs!”

Harry frowns deeply, feeling a little bit like someone just opened up a door he didn’t even realize was there before. It never crossed his mind that he could possibly be too young to be involved in all this and he certainly doesn’t _feel_ like he is, but at this rate he’s not going to have a chance to enjoy any of his teenage years.

“And it’s not like my family’s destitute,” Ron goes on. “I just thought… maybe I could make it easier on them if—”

“Instead of telling them,” Harry cuts in, “just give them the money.”

Ron gapes at him. “Er, what?”

“Use the trick yourself and give them the money, just enough not to be suspicious,” Harry repeats. “Don’t your parents have a… a moneybox at home, or something like that? You know, to save up?”

“Yeah, but mum keeps count of it,” Ron says, frowning slightly.

“So what? Just add a few galleons to the pot every now and then, and don’t tell anyone.” Harry shrugs. “What are they gonna do, not use it? As long as you don't tell anyone or overuse it, it should be fine.”

“I suppose.” Ron falls silent for a while, seeming to consider it. “But I can’t keep that up forever, and what if they find out?”

Harry shrugs. “Taking care of your family is more important, isn’t it? We’ll just have to cross that bridge when we get there.”

Ron's mouth slowly falls open, looking at a loss for words as his eyes brighten with emotion and Harry looks away, rubbing the back of his head while pretending not to have seen it. Hermione meanwhile makes a high-pitched noise beside them that sounds suspiciously like a squeal, drawing several looks from the students sitting around them.

“Finally!” She looks at them like she wants to both punch them square in the mouth and hug them at the same time. “It took you long enough!”

Harry grins stupidly and Ron grins right back at him, and it’s like a weight is lifted off his chest.

He has his friends back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so bleh, starting off the new year Mediocre af lmao. 
> 
> soooo tell me what you thought, did you love it, did you hate it, thanks for all the comments and the support and i'll see you next time!


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